


Upon a Western Wave

by CMTaylor



Series: Oceana [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMFs, Boats and Ships, Character(s) of Color, Epic, F/M, Fantasy, High Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Fiction, Original Slash, Original Universe, Slash, War, Wartime Romance, Women Being Awesome, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 204,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMTaylor/pseuds/CMTaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the battle for Ithaka behind them, Val and Arden return to Armathia only to find that their victory is short lived. The Reckoning is upon them, threatening the future of the Eastern World. Bound first and foremost by their duty, Regent and Steward must part ways as they undertake individual quests to save Anaphe, the capital's twin city, from destruction.</p><p>The road back to Armathia, however, is not an easy one.</p><p>**This is the second work in a series; you'll want to read 'A Wicked Whisper Came' first.<br/>**Newly revised as of 2/26/2015</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who don't have accounts at Ao3 or who would like to send me a direct message, check out my twitter @WriterCMTaylor. I'll be posting updates, links to new chapters, and plenty of retweets and quotes about how editing is the most brain-melting process known to man.
> 
> For anyone who is an old reader rejoining the story, head on back to the first work in this series and check out the new maps! [Spoiler: unlike the last ones, they *weren't* drawn in MS Paint.]
> 
> Regarding the banner: that's Félix on the left and Ehrin on the right.

 

 

All work intellectual property of CM Taylor . 

 

* * *

 

_The Season of Peace  
Erád the 19; 2421_

The men who entered the chamber were travel-stained; salt crusted their hair and clothing, but haste bade them appear before the council in the garb of common sailors. Their entry was abrupt and unannounced, leaving the guards at the door reeling. One managed to bark out a surprised warning before the two men strode up the center aisle in the direction of the dais, councilors murmuring in their wake.

If any had doubts about their reception they were dispelled by the figure at the head of the hall who leapt to his feet at the sight of them, an exclamation of joy escaping his lips. He swept down the steps of the dais, robes of state trailing behind him. The golden circlet resting upon his brow – decrying his station to any who did not know his face – glinted in the torchlight, offsetting the unnatural silvering at his temples.

The Crown Prince had no intention of standing upon ceremony. He met the two newcomers with a beatific smile upon his face, throwing his arms around the darker of the two.

“Brother,” he said, voice thick, “you’ve arrived.”

“Briefly detained by a storm, I’m afraid. You look well, S—my Lord.”

“Thanks to your efforts, I am told,” the Prince said.

“I was but a piece of the puzzle,” his brother demurred.

“Of course.” The Prince’s gaze slid over to size up the copper-haired man standing at his brother’s side. He nodded with approval as the man met gaze unflinching. To look Oceana’s next King in the eye was no small thing, and Siath was glad to see that his brother’s Steward didn’t cower – not even before Eramen’s heir.

“My Lord.” The Steward executed a smart bow, one that conveyed the depth of his respect for Siath’s station without stooping to servility.

“Well met. I must confess, I’ve heard much of you these past weeks. I’m told you have a head for strategy.” His lips thinned in a mirthless smile. “As it stands, we will need to make use of such a talent. The times grow darker.”

“Darker still?”

He lifted a hand up, reflexively touching a silvered temple. “The battles at Illen’s Arm and Elona were only the beginning.” He sighed, turning back to his brother. “When you and I were younger, we always used to play at being great war heroes, did we not?”

“As little boys will do, yes,” Valory frowned. “What does child’s play have to do with this?”

“We have always wanted to do our forebears proud. It has been my greatest hope that we might be but half the men Eramen was—”

“And mine as well.”

“It must be so: now more than ever. We are to be put to the test.”

“What are you saying?”

“The time has come, Valory. I have seen it in my vision.”

“The witches, then – and the Westernese . . .” Valory trailed off, looking around the council chamber. He and Arden were late to this discussion. The grim faces around the room only confirmed what his brother was telling him, what he had secretly suspected and feared.

“All called by the Damned One,” Siath said, pulling the thought from his head. “The hour is upon us.”

Valory swallowed, something cold sinking in his gut. It was true.

_“The Reckoning.”  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from Colerige's Rime of the Ancient Mariner.


	2. Chapter 2

_The Season of Peace  
Erád the 21; 2421_

_Windjammer_ ’s crew – Arden in particular – received a long-overdue hero’s welcome upon their return to the capital. With no small amount of irony, he noted how a single high-stakes military victory had led to the immediate evaporation of his former detractors and sworn skeptics. He had it on good authority that Imran was receiving the same sort of unprecedented admiration each time he turned a corner. The thought made Arden smile. He wondered how many admirers the Dramorian had offended in the pair of days that had passed since their return.

Some of the fervor surrounding their arrival could be attributed to the holiday – even to the long-awaited announcement of Prince Siath’s coronation. The council, High Steward Miran in particular, had wasted no time in making arrangements for Siath’s ascension to the throne. Hindsight made the enemy’s battle strategy throughout the Season of Storms clear: Zathár and his minions had sought to bring about the Reckoning when Oceana was distraught and leaderless. That they had nearly succeeded was still more disconcerting. When word got out that the Reckoning was upon them – and it was only a matter of days before the intelligence would leak – it was imperative for Siath to already be named King. Delay would only cause unnecessary unrest. In light of such discoveries, Siath had refused the elaborate fete that typically accompanied a coronation in favor of an expedient celebration that dovetailed with the Day of Banishment.

The irony of timing was not lost on Arden.

If humble Siath had thought he would escape a spectacle of a coronation by giving a mere two days’ notice, however, he had underestimated his Steward’s efficiency. Verne, as concerned with propriety as ever, had orchestrated an immaculate ceremony. Arden suspected that his brother had recruited the soon-to-be dowager Queen to arrange for the traditional rites and prayers to be read; nothing else could explain why they had been listening to thousand-year-old speeches for the better part of three hours.

Persephone, Arden noted, paid great attention to detail. He found himself wishing that Siath had given even less notice; perhaps then the interminable number of speeches would have been culled. Arden was thankful, however, that he stood in the shade; the midday sun was unseasonably hot in the unprotected plaza. Some of the spectators looked as though they were about to wilt.

Valory, for once, wasn’t jumping out of his skin with restless energy, yet on this occasion Arden was unsurprised by his Prince’s stony calm. That morning at sunrise the ceremony had begun with a funerary procession, bearing Adrianth’s ashes through the streets of Armathia and down to the water. The roads had been lined with people, gathering to wish the late King well on his final journey. Imran had walked beside Valory and Arden through the seven city levels. Sensing his commander’s quiet grief, he had chosen to direct all of his questions to Arden instead. It seemed as though, having spent most of his time in Oceana on the road, Imran had never seen an Armathian funeral.

Arden had been happy for the distraction. Valory’s detached silence was difficult to bear, especially when the events of the day only served to remind him that he hadn’t been able to attend Conrad’s last rites. He wouldn’t have put it past Imran to know that was the case, either, for the man’s questions were unrelenting. Arden cracked a smile, remembering the Dramorian’s ill-concealed surprise as they passed through the lower levels and the gathered spectators began to blow on them. _‘What are we, candles?’_ Imran had asked.

_‘It’s an old superstition, Imran. They’re playing at freshening the breeze for Illen’s sails.’_

_‘For when she bears the soul of the King across the sea?’_

_‘Precisely.’_

At the small stone altar by the water, Illen’s priests had given Adrianth’s remains their final blessing. Siath, who had carried the urn through seven city levels to the waterside, passed it to Miran. Though most Oceanic people had their ashes committed to the sea by their next of kin, the House of Kings gave their Stewards the honor. Miran had spoken the final words of parting before lowering the urn into the water. After a few moments he arose, the gilt-edged vessel dripping in his hands.

 _‘The King is dead,’_ he proclaimed, _‘Long live the King!’_

 _If only that were all it took_ , Arden thought, glancing around at the tired faces of those around him. Sensing his restlessness, Valory turned to regard him, serious expression taking on a hint of softness as he looked upon his Steward.

“The rites are almost through,” he whispered.

Sure enough the speaker in the center of the balcony finished his traditional blessing and stepped down a few minutes later. His position was taken by the High Priest of Armathia, who had remained silent since blessing Adrianth’s ashes.

The High Priest looked just as Arden remembered from childhood; the stern, craggy features, piercing dark eyes, skin like tanned leather. His robes were made up of black and white panels meant to represent the Brother and Sister, shot through with Ranael’s bright blue. A talisman hung about his neck marking him as an Elementalist, though Arden couldn’t remember the nature of his enchantment.

He held up a hand, beckoning Siath to step forward. Knowing what was being asked of him, Siath swept down to his knees before the High Priest, eyes trained on the throngs of Armathians gathered before him.

The High Priest seemed undaunted by the lineage of the head bowed before him, directing his attention instead to the crowd.

“Do you, people of Oceana, accept this man as your rightful King?” he called.

“Long live the King!” came the thunderous shout, the people answering back in nearly one voice.

“Are you prepared to take the oath?” the High Priest continued, turning back to the man kneeling at his feet.

“I am,” Siath said, voice clear.

“Do you swear to govern the people of Oceana with a just and merciful hand, in war and in peace?”

“I do.”

“Will you take the counsel of your Regent and Steward, and therefore act to ensure the prosperity of your country and of your people?” the High Priest continued.

“I will,” Siath swore.

“Will you look to Ranael with all of the humble respect due to him and his realm’s fathomless depths?”

“I will.”

“And will you stay ever true to the Brother and Sister, Fángon and Illen, who have blessed your reign and the reign of your forefathers?”

“I swear it,” Siath completed.

“By the Ship of the East, by the Ship of the Damned, and by Ranael’s blue waters, may your reign be blessed,” the High Priest said. Siath touched his brow reverently. “Rise.” Siath obeyed, standing with his hands at his sides.

A lesser priest approached the pair, bearing an ornate crown upon a rich blue cloth. The High Priest touched his brow before lifting the crown up, holding it high above Siath’s head. The swirling, wave-like metalwork glinted gold in the mid-afternoon sunlight, glittering as the crown moved.

“May this crown fill you with the wisdom, strength, and courage of your forefathers. May you always know the hearts of men. May you ever stand as a beacon of light to your people, a child of Eramen, blessed by Illen at the beginning of an age,” the High Priest declared, lowering the crown to rest atop Siath’s dark mane of hair. “May the wind be ever at your back,” he said, stepping back. “Long live the King!”

“Long live the King!” cried the crowd in unison as the cathedral’s bell began to ring. To Valory’s eyes Siath almost seemed to stand taller, even under the weight of the crown. He smiled down at his people, raising his hands as he spoke the words of a traditional Armathian blessing. Valory could only tell what he was saying by watching his lips move; his words were drowned out by the euphoric shouts of their people.

His brother would never kneel before another again.

With a kind smile gracing his features, Siath turned towards Valory. Quelling the shouts that rung throughout the plaza, he indicated for Valory to join him. Obediently, Valory took his place at his King’s side.

“It is my honor,” Siath said, taking the simple gold circlet offered to him by the High Priest, “to introduce the people of Armathia to their Regent – my noble brother – Prince Valory bar Adrianth di Oceana.”

The crowd cheered. Valory bowed his head, pride expanding in his chest until it made his knees tremble. Once Siath had placed the circlet upon his head, Valory kissed the heavy gold signet ring that had once belonged to their father. He straightened, meeting Siath’s smiling eyes as they both touched their brows.

“It will be an honor to serve you, my brother. My King,” he said, gravity lending power to his otherwise quiet tone.

The High Priest withdrew. It was now Siath’s turn to command the ceremony. Without further ado, he turned to Verne. “Today we must honor the men who will make this reign fruitful and blessed: the House of Stewards.”

Miran and Verne both stepped forward, outfitted in the silver and blue hues of their House. This time, however, it was Verne who filled the place of honor beside the King. Verne’s expression revealed the humble, dignified pleasure he felt as his father bowed before him, extending his scepter for Verne to take. Once the scepter was passed, Miran fell into line beside Persephone, who no longer wore the embellished crown that had marked her as Queen.

Verne knelt beside his King, one hand on his scepter and another over his heart. They spoke the words of their pledge, modified to honor Verne’s ascent to the office of High Steward. Though Verne accepted his King’s pledge with the level mien he was known for, Valory could see the slightest hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth.

As Verne rose to his feet amongst the cheers and well-wishes of his people, Siath turned to Valory. It was the Regent’s turn to honor his own Steward.

“Val,” Arden murmured, appearing at Valory’s side. Like his father and brother, he was clad in his House’s colors. Unlike them, however, he wore a single star pinned against the delicate swirls of embroidery at his collar. Valory noticed the Captain’s star with a burst of pride; since their return to Armathia, a great number of honors had been bestowed upon his humble friend.

“Let us not have so dramatic a scene this time, shall we?” he intoned as Arden knelt before him, a hand on the pommel of his cutlass and another over his heart.

“My Lord,” he said, the ghost of a laugh in his tone as he met Valory’s eyes and renewed his pledge.

When the time came for Valory to answer, he found that no small amount of affection leaked into his voice.

The smile in Valory’s words was audible to Arden, who had long since learned to read the subtleties of Valory’s expressions. A peaceful warmth spread through him as his Regent’s pledge swelled to its natural conclusion. Though the renewal of the pledge lacked some of the intensity of the original, the effect was no less powerful. Arden felt their enchantments twining together: a soft breeze blew in curlicues around the ankles of those standing upon the dais. Today they were not staking claims, but reinforcing the order of things. They were telling Armathia that yes, this was where each of them belonged.

Arden kissed Valory’s ring before touching his brow and rising. Once he was on his feet, Siath moved to speak again, continuing with the ceremony. He fell into place at Valory’s side, smiling as he felt Valory’s elbow knock his. It was the most affectionate gesture the man would risk while standing upon a dais surrounded by his people, but it warmed Arden’s chest nevertheless. A brief breeze spiraled around them. Arden could hear Val’s quiet chuckle; he must have known that the wind was bending to Arden’s moods that day.

Siath, on the other hand, had already turned his attention to the men and women who had fought in Oceana’s name at Illen’s Arm and Elona, commending the heroics of the Oceanic people and their leaders. Admirals Edgar and Francis both received commendations. Willis’ promotion to Admiral was noted. The Captains involved in both actions were honored by name. Even _Windjammer_ and her crew were paid tribute for their long stint of service to the crown. At the end of a simple but moving speech, Siath had but one name left to speak.

“And finally,” he said, “we must all bow our heads before Lieutenant Imran bar Garo di Dramor – Regent Valory’s faithful second-in-command – without whom the victory at Elona could not have been possible.”

The announcement was met with a quiet, yet positive noise from the crowd. The confusion on some of their faces was clear: it was wartime. What was the King doing honoring a man of Dramor?

“Lieutenant Imran came to Oceana many years ago, first as a diplomat on Dramor’s behalf, then later seeking asylum from Dramorian rule. For years he has been an invaluable part of Oceana’s mighty military. It is high time that we honor his name; yet his name is not one which we might speak with reverence,” Siath said. “Lieutenant, please come forward.”

With hesitant grace, Imran moved to stand beside the King. The look on his face made it clear that he had no idea why he was being singled out from all of the other military men who had been named that day.

“Lieutenant, you have served Oceana with the utmost loyalty for many years, is that correct?” Siath asked.

“I have,” Imran said. A few uneasy murmurs could be heard in the crowd.

“You have renounced Dramor, and chosen to live out the rest of your days as a man of Oceana,” Siath continued.

“Yes my Lord,” Imran affirmed.

“Yet still, custom dictates that you must keep that stain of a name, associating you with a family that has only ever served to do our great nation harm.”

“That is so,” Imran frowned.

“The business of names is difficult, Lieutenant. They say so much, and carry so much weight,” Siath mused. “It seems then that the least the people of Oceana – your people – can give to you in exchange for so many years of loyal service, is the gift of a name reflective of your true worth,” Siath said.

“My Lord?”

“Imran bar Garo di Dramor, do you wish to become a true man of Oceana?” Siath asked.

Imran blanched. “To have a surname of this country?” he stammered. “My Lord—”

“It is no more than you have earned, Lieutenant – and not more than I am able to give.” Wordless, Imran nodded his assent. “Very well. And from what family do you hail, then?”

Imran paused, considering this question for a moment. “I am a child of Arrar,” he said, “a God who is not yours, perhaps, but a God who has never done Oceana harm.”

Siath nodded, an approving smile spreading across his face. “I take great joy in presenting you to your people on this blessed day, Lieutenant Imran bar Arrar di Oceana.”

Finally having cottoned onto their King’s intent, the crowd erupted into cheers, blessing Imran’s name. If Arden hadn’t known Imran so well, he might have missed the watery sheen in the (former) Dramorian’s dark eyes. As it was, he realized that Imran was entirely overwhelmed with pride and gratitude. Valory’s brother had given him the greatest gift he had ever received. His motives – always suspect in the past – were now beyond reproach. The fierce loyalty with which he served his commander was finally recognized by the people he had long since begun to call his own.

“A happy occasion,” Valory murmured in Arden’s ear as they waited for the fuss to die down.

“A well-needed respite before the storm that is sure to come,” Arden agreed. “He deserves all of the accolades he was given.”

Valory met his eyes. “As do you.” His tone brokered no argument.

Arden’s fingers rested first on the silver crescent-moon pendant that hung next to his talisman, then traced the outline of the star pinned to his collar. “A new beginning for all of us, then,” he allowed.

“How fitting, then, to begin like this.”

“Like this?”

“With such an oath, on such a day,” Valory elaborated.

“Ah,” Arden murmured. The Reckoning. The Day of Banishment. The words they had just spoken to one another: _‘I will stand with you in all things and keep faith with you against all creatures, living or dead, until death take us and Illen bear our souls across the sea.’_ “Together we stand, then – to face the Damned One and his minions.”

Valory nodded, jaw set, steel in his eyes. “Let them come.”

…

As the mood in the plaza turned jubilant, Ehrin slipped away from the rest of _Windjammer_ ’s crew. Although she looked forward to spending the holiday with them – not to mention celebrating the honor they had received from the lips of the new King – there was one thing she felt compelled to do first. Clutching her parcel, she pulled her only fine shawl about her shoulders and hastened through the upper city’s gates. On any other day the sight of a Kilcoranian girl heading towards the fort might have raised some eyebrows. The Armathians who littered the street paid her little mind, however, so caught up were they in the fervor surrounding the coronation.

When she reached the holding cells beneath the fort, the guards on duty let her through without remark. She hadn’t met resistance from the guards since her return from Ithaka; she figured that the Regent must have gotten to the soldiers first, ordering them to grant her unencumbered access to Félix’s cell. As such, they turned a blind eye to the parcel that she made only the most cursory attempt at hiding beneath an arm.

Félix sat in the small patch of light filtering into his cell, head tipped back against the wall, eyes shut and fingers steepled beneath his chin in thought. She paused just on the other side of the thick iron bars, regarding him in silence for a long moment.

“I thought you will not come today,” he said, unmoving.

“ _Good afternoon_ to you too, Félix.”

The Commodore lowered his hands to his lap, dark eyes opening and fixing on her. “ _Your accent improves_.”

“I should hope so.” Ehrin wrinkled her nose. “I’ve been practicing enough. Imran says I’m making fair progress, and Illen knows he’s never tended toward baseless flattery.”

“Is the Dramorian traitor not busy enough with his duty?” Félix cocked a brow.

“Don’t call him that; Imran has as much honor as any of us. Besides, he’s no man of Dramor anymore – the King granted him an exemption.”

At those words, she had Félix’s full attention. “He is a citizen of Oceana, now?”

“As of this morning,” she confirmed.

“ _I had not thought you Oceanic capable of such a thing; not with the hatred you bear for your neighbors._ ”

Ehrin furrowed her brow, parsing out the combinations of foreign vowels. Since the conflict with the _Madesta_ , she had learned that Félix spoke just about every language and dialect heard in their waters. He had little sympathy for her struggle to learn Belenese. As it was, he only smirked when she resorted to responding in Oceanic; he knew that she found it easier to understand what he said than to construct sentences herself.

“The King is a good man,” she shrugged, ignoring the smirk. “It wasn’t an act of politics or pity.”

“Your King was made today – the brother of Valory.”

“Yeh,” Ehrin nodded. “Prince Valory was honored as well: he’s Regent, now.”

“He does not wish for more?”

“What, to take the throne in his brother’s place? Of course not! Why would you suggest such a thing?”

“Why could the crown not be his?” At the bewildered look on Ehrin’s face, Félix elaborated, “ _Who is to say that one son would make a better King than another, merely by accident of birth_?”

“Illen’s will, of course. It was no ‘accident’ that the Regent was born the younger brother,” she said.

“Hm.”

“Scoff at the Gods if you wish, but that is the way things are in Oceana. Everyone knows it.”

“You Oceanic make up fantasies,” he sneered. “Your Prince does not try to take the throne? Then he is afraid.”

“It’s not about fear, Félix; he knows his duty and is content with his place,” she argued.

“Yes, a place made for him with no . . . with no . . . _a place bestowed upon him without reason. He is not so stupid as to vie for the crown when he knows that the backlash from the nobility – over the perceived intentions of an imagined deity – would be severe. It is a clever thing for the Kings of Oceana to use so-called godly will to drive the behavior of their greatest competitors_.”

Ehrin’s frown deepened, in part because she only understood the gist of his argument. “What problems do you have in Belen? Gods or no Gods, Valory didn’t _want_ the crown.”

“Did he not?” Félix countered, raising a brow.

“From his lips to mine,” she answered. “It was something he said often, in the days before Ithaka.”

“Then he is a fool.”

Ehrin scowled at the contempt in the Commodore’s tone. “To the contrary, he is wise. At the very least, he is further-sighted than you, to see that his gifts are best suited for a different role.”

“Hm.” Félix relaxed back against the stone wall once more.

“What, are mattes of succession always such a dogfight in Belen that you can’t believe Oceana could crown an uncontested King?” she asked.

“It is the way of things. _The sons of the Lord of Belen must strive to prove who is the most worthy of taking their father’s title._ ”

“How can the brothers cooperate afterward?” Ehrin wondered.

“We have no . . . no Regent, if that is what you mean. The sons who lose, they know they must step away. The Lord of Belen does not have dissenters. Dissenters are silenced.”

“Killed?” Ehrin could not mask her surprise.

“If necessary, though it is not common. The Lord cannot have his word taken as . . . as suggestion, in place of law,” Félix answered.

“Who decides which of the brothers is most worthy?” Ehrin asked.

“ _The Lord of Belen consults with the elders and the tribal council_.”

“And the other brothers accept that decision?”

“Sometimes,” Félix said, teeth flashing a humorless smile.

“What do they do, then, once they are denied the title? Do they work in politics? You have no church for them to enter.”

“Some trade with Dramor. It is a long road to Indar and we have much tribute to pay.” Félix said these words with poorly concealed anger. “Others take land, or become navy men.”

“Then you could be the commander of one of your superiors.”

An amused smile answered her words. “ _That is unlikely_.”

Ehrin frowned, thinking over all that he had – and hadn’t – said. When she put the faint string of clues together, her conclusion wiped the smile from Félix’s face. “Why didn’t the tribal council pick you to succeed your father?”

This was not the first time the Oceanic woman had stunned Félix speechless. For one, he hadn’t thought her grasp of Belenese had improved enough to allow her to understand everything he had said. What’s more, he hadn’t even realized that her casual question about commanding his superiors was in fact a calculated attempt to discern his social status in Belen. He had underestimated her quick wit yet again.

“ _Well done, Miss Ehrin – the Regent should employ you as my interrogator in his stead._ ”

“I’m not here to interrogate you,” she said, voice quiet. “But now I think I understand a bit more about you.”

“Do you?”

“I . . .” she faltered for a moment before regaining her footing. “I know that your desire for a free Madesta is very strong. Your love for your land is moving, but . . . you told me not so long ago that the other states are only now starting to think like that. Did your father think your politics too radical to name you his successor?”

“ _Yes, though perhaps he has come to regret his decision_.”

“Do you regret his decision?”

Félix frowned. “No.”

“Then you and Prince Valory have that in common, do you not? Only, Illen made his decision for him.”

“ _Oceanic fairytales are nothing like Belen_.”

“No?”

“No.”

Ehrin knew that tone well: she would get no more from the Commodore on the subject. “Very well, then.”

“You will tell this to your Prince.” It was not a question.

“Félix—”

“ _You are bound by duty to say what you have learned, are you not_?”

“I am no spy,” she insisted.

“No. _But you won my title justly. My punishment, perhaps, for forgetting that you are no one’s fool_.”

Ehrin peered at him through the bars, curiosity written across her features. “You are angry.”

Félix shrugged. “ _My wits grow soft here_.”

It was a stab at his imprisonment – a subject he knew wracked her with guilt. Ehrin sighed. “I see.”

There was a pause during which Félix tipped his head back against the cell wall once more, sunlight casting a warm glow to the pallor of his features. He had grown paler since his confinement. Looking down, Ehrin began to fuss with her parcel. The Commodore might scoff at the Gods, but she had reason to believe he would partake in one particular Banishment Day tradition.

Sure enough, the aroma of still-warm cake piqued Félix’s interest. Ehrin giggled at the audible rumble of complaint made by his stomach. “You arrive and my body thinks of food,” he muttered.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she replied, settling down cross-legged before the cell.

With exaggerated reluctance, Félix moved to join her. In a parody of sitting down for a meal, he mirrored her position. “What have you brought?”

“It’s a good luck cake, cooked with orange rind, almond, and spices.”

“Another lesson in Oceanic culture?”

Ehrin heard the ghost of amusement in his voice. “Turnabout for my never-ending curiosity about Belen,” she countered, placing the cake on a cloth spread on the ground before them. “You won’t see cakes like this in Armathia; it’s a Kilcoranian tradition. This time of year you can smell the cakes all throughout the streets in Bightton.” Ehrin wondered whether or not she was imagining the charged sentiment in Félix’s eyes. No doubt they both had the same thought – that such a tradition was only carried out that season thanks to Félix’s failure and subsequent imprisonment.

“For your holiday?” he asked, dropping his eyes back down to the cake.

“It’s made to celebrate the Day of Banishment and the turning over of a new year. The darkest hours are behind us; the days only grow longer. We bake a Royal into the bottom of each cake. Whoever gets that slice is said to have good fortune in the coming months.”

“And the coin?”

“It’d be bad luck to spend it, of course. Those that get the coin often keep it on their person,” she replied.

“Who has taken the first piece?” he asked, gesturing to the missing third of the small cake.

“Fángon did. We always cut a slice for him and give it to the sea. It’s his day, after all.”

“Hm.” Félix took the slice proffered by Ehrin without further comment, cupping it in his hands and waiting. It struck her that, for all of his scathing words about Oceana, he was careful to avoid violating custom.

Ehrin lifted her own piece. “Now we turn them over.” When they flipped their cakes, the glint of metal could be seen embedded in the crust of Félix’s slice. “Happy day,” she murmured, gesturing to the coin. “It seems that Fángon has smiled upon you.”

“Hm.” Despite the noncommittal noise, he pocketed the small coin as directed. “And now?”

“And now we enjoy our treat.”

…

As the procession wound its way through moonlit streets, Valory watched Sybina speak with his mother, her familiar dulcet tones drifting back towards him on the light breeze. She had wrapped herself in the new fur-lined cloak he had heard so much about the last time they had exchanged more than mere pleasantries. He knew little enough about women’s fashion, but he could tell that the color of the fabric was well suited to her; he wondered whether or not he should pay her a compliment. _Illen knows I’d best get used to such things_ , he mused. He did not want to marry, no – but he did not want to be an ogre of a husband, either.

“Something’s on your mind.”

Valory glanced over at Arden, who walked – as he always would – to his right. His features were illuminated by the flickering of the tallow candle he held, coloring his hair red-gold. “You’re one to talk.”

Arden smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes, and I know one who’s lost in thought at sight. What occupies you?”

Valory didn’t relish lying to his dearest companion, but mentioning Sybina would do naught but wipe the smile off of Arden’s face. “Only thinking it ironic that we’re marching to thank Fángon for the sequestration of the Damned One and his ilk when in reality, his grasp on the gate between worlds has slipped.”

“And many of those we walk with know it to be so,” Arden added. Most of the residents of the levels – due to their positions within the government of Armathia and subsequent related gossip – already knew the circumstances behind Siath’s long illness. “When will your brother tell the rest?”

“After council next convenes on the matter. He doesn’t want to ruin the holiday, nor does he think it wise to address the public before deciding upon a course of action that might give them some hope.”

“He fears the reaction that would befall an untried king?” Arden asked.

“Just so. We are not leaderless nor is Siath a young man, but it will take some time for him to win the confidence of the people.”

“We may not have time,” Arden pointed out. “The Damned One is already several steps ahead of us.”

“Be that as it may, we _will_ catch him.” Siath’s voice cut into their conversation.

“My Lord,” Arden grimaced.

“Apologies are unnecessary, Lord Steward Arden; I know you were merely dispensing counsel, as is your duty,” Siath said, joining them as they followed the High Priest around another candlelit corner. The added height of his gilt crown had him towering over them. “Please though – let us have no more talk of the demon. Tonight is meant to be one of celebration and renewal. I should hate to needlessly sacrifice it to our worries.”

“You make a fair point, my Lord,” Arden conceded.

“I wish you would use my given name, as you do with my brother,” Siath said.

Arden spared a glance for Verne. He remained deep in conversation with their father, gesturing as though making a point with the hand that held his tallow candle. “My Lord—”

Siath’s gentle smile only broadened. “That’s alright. I suppose I can’t grudge Valory for being the one exemption from the formality of the House of Stewards.”

“I must follow my brother’s lead,” Arden apologized.

Siath’s smile turned wicked. “You might have misinterpreted the friendship I have with your brother, in that case.”

Arden made a choked noise of dismay, complexion reddening all the way to the roots of his hair.

“Try not to give my Steward a heart attack during the midnight procession, you old gossip,” Valory rolled his eyes. “Your angle is all too obvious.”

“I was merely drawing a comparison,” Siath replied. “I’d like to think, though, that whatever good this has done for both our Houses, it is anything but obvious.”

Arden nodded, knowing what Siath – acting that moment more in his capacity as a brother than as a King – meant to say. “Should I assume then, my Lord, that this is the sort of conversation one’s brother might have with his nearest companion?”

Siath nodded, countenance grave. “Do no harm to my brother. I am pleased by what I have Seen, and I would like to keep it that way.” The threat in his words was explicit. Here was the ironclad will that lay just beneath Siath’s gentle, affable surface.

“For Fángon’s sake, Siath,” Valory rolled his eyes again.

“You need not worry, my Lord. Any harm I do to Val is harm I do to myself.”

Siath smiled, more than satisfied with the answer. Valory, for his part, appeared struck by Arden’s simple yet honest declaration. They rarely spoke to one another in such clear terms.

“Well said, Lord Arden.”

“Has my brother been disseminating wisdom from the isles once more, my Lord?” Verne asked, rejoining their conversation.

“Something like that,” Siath replied with ill-concealed amusement.

“Your humor will get you into trouble one of these days, brother,” Verne said with a resigned sigh, misinterpreting Siath’s grin, “though it does not surprise me that our King finds your wit to be good company.”

“A bit of laughter never caused harm – not in times such as these, when we need it most,” Siath gently reminded his Steward.

Miran, for his part, remained silent. Since Arden’s triumphant return from Ithaka – and subsequent military promotion – Miran’s scathing remarks had all but evaporated. Arden found himself ever-braced for cutting words that didn’t come. He couldn’t decide whether it was due to newfound, grudging respect on his father’s part, or whether the former High Steward felt muzzled by their role reversal and Arden’s sudden popularity.

“Perhaps that is so, my Lord,” Verne allowed.

Arden couldn’t help but hope it was the former. No matter what he had said to Lawrence on Kilcoran, reaching a truce with his father would be a blessing. He might be a grown man, but he doubted that he would ever stop seeking his father’s approval.

“Let us enjoy this lovely night, then.” Siath gestured before them where the road sloped and broadened. They were nearly back at the seaside altar where their day had begun many hours earlier. The moon was waxing, its hazy, cloud-covered shape reflected in the still waters of the bay. In the distance Arden could even pick out the shape of _Windjammer_ sitting at anchor. It seemed impossible to him that such idyllic scenes were possible at a time such as this: when man’s very reign in the Eastern World was threatened.

Arden’s thoughts were interrupted by Valory’s indignant sputter. By the looks of things, Siath had made yet another under-the-breath remark.

“Meddler,” Valory accused no small amount of warmth suffusing his tone.

“As though I could leave you to your own devices, baby brother,” Siath smiled.

Valory butted shoulders with him. “You say that, and yet I seem to recall it was _you_ in need of rescuing not so long ago—”

“All for your own good, Val. You do get a bit tetchy when there’s no action to be had in Armathia.”

Valory snorted. “How altruistic of you, to give your mind over for my benefit.”

“I am ever-concerned with the well-being of others,” Siath nodded, half-smile betraying his mock-seriousness.

Verne leaned in towards Arden. “They share a particular sense of humor. You have not seen them thus, have you?”

“My Lord told me they were close. It is a welcome sight.”

“It will benefit the cause, no doubt, that the King and his Regent speak so candidly. For us, however, it often serves to complicate matters.”

“How so?” Arden asked, eyes flicking back and forth between the two brothers, so similar in appearance for all of their dissimilarities in temperament.

“The Regent may be a guarded man, but few are the things he does not share with his brother. When we give counsel to one, we give counsel to both,” Verne replied. “My Lord is very protective of the Regent. I have told you that he oft refuses to speak with me on matters regarding Lord Valory. I will need you to be my eyes and ears in that regard.”

Arden nodded, a pang of envy lancing through him. He had always known his brother for the stoic sort, but the rift between them had never been thrown into quite such sharp relief. Stood next to the bantering royal family, it seemed as though his brother felt the need to justify their own continued kinship through matters of work and duty.

“Of course, Verne. I’ll take pains to furnish you with whatever information you require.”

“Little enough at present, as the King has said. Matters of state must rest tonight.”

“I see no need to rely upon matters of state as a reason to speak with my brother,” Arden ventured.

Verne appeared pleased by the admission. “Very well, then. Perhaps you would break your fast with Agatha and me tomorrow morning?”

Arden smiled. “I’d like that.”

Their words had paralleled a more serious segue in that of Siath and Valory’s conversation. Valory’s derisive snort recaptured their attention. “I have little affection for the man, if that’s what you mean,” he rumbled.

Siath frowned. “That is a shame to hear, and I wonder whether or not you feel that way because you do not _want_ to like him. He is not responsible for Father’s decision.”

“You are too focused on seeing the good in others if you think that resentment is all that drives my opinion,” Valory countered.

“The man is far from selfless, true,” Siath said, voice hushed, “nor is he the most likeable individual. For all of that, though, he has yet to do us a wrong turn, or give unwise council where Anaphe is concerned.”

“That remains to be seen,” Valory muttered. Arden could hear the anger and frustration in his tone.

Verne raised a brow at Arden. “He dislikes Duke Edmund.”

“As he said, Edmund is not Oceana’s most likeable man,” Arden shrugged.

“I had thought him more apathetic before. This is something new.”

“You can tell, even here?”

Verne seemed amused by his brother’s incredulity. “I am no master at my craft, but I’ve been known to glean stronger impressions from those I know well. Do you know when I first noticed the Regent’s temper turn on Edmund?”

“When?” Arden already knew.

“The day he tried to usurp your role as Steward. His anger is on your behalf.”

“No need for it. It’s over now.”

“That is so,” Verne inclined his head. “As his Steward, it is your place to counsel him thus.” After a pause he added, “Lord Valory’s rather petulant attitude towards the Duke is frustrating, but comes from a noble source. One might say that you and I are lucky men as a result – even amongst those of our caste.”

“Oh?”

“Our House is one that gives lifelong, loyal service. We do not often see it in return.”

Arden wondered whether or not Verne had picked upon any of Valory’s outputs aside from his resentment of Edmund. “Lucky we are, indeed.” He shook his head. Verne would be far less circumspect if he knew the true reason for Valory’s fierce anger. As it was, his step was slow and calm, the hard set of his jaw somewhat relaxed. Tonight his remarks were not laced with their customary layers of meaning.

The front of the procession reached the waterfront altar where waves rhythmically slapped against time worn stone circles. Glancing back, Arden admired the ribbon of candlelight that wound back towards the city proper. Hundreds of tiny flames illuminated the streets in a warm glow, flickering with each pass of the breeze. He pulled his light cloak further around his shoulders, callouses catching on the delicate silver embroidery. There was a chill in the air at night this time of year – enough that the fine fur lining sported by Sybina and the Queen seemed more of an informed choice than a fashionable indulgence.

As they arranged themselves around the altar, Sybina came to stand with them. She offered up a shy smile and a curtsy in their direction before sidling up on Valory’s left hand side. Arden felt a perverse amount of pride that the girl knew better than to attempt to covet the spot to Valory’s right.

“You are looking well, Lady Sybina,” Valory said.

“Thank you, my Lord.” She ducked her head, a pleased smile pulling at her lips.

“The Sarian style you spoke of is, I see, quite . . .” Valory grasped for an appropriate adjective, “quite fine,” he finished lamely. Arden stifled a snicker, for which he received an elbow in the ribs.

Sybina perked up at the mention of her new cloak. “You noticed, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord.”

Valory let out an inaudible sigh. “Yes, well, you’re quite welcome.”

He was saved from the indignity of further awkward conversation by the High Priest, who raise a single white flower in the air, holding it there until the crowd quieted. Once a hush fell over the assembly, he cast the flower into the water. “May Fángon look kindly upon the tribute of his humble servants, who come to show their devotion.”

“Fángon be praised,” the crowd answered with one voice.

He cast another flower into the water. “We come to thank him for the sequestration of the damned, a duty for which he has eternally confined himself to the depths, away from the light of life and the land to the East,” he continued.

“Fángon be praised.”

“May we bring some warmth to him in this darkest hour of this darkest day, that he might draw strength from our worship to keep the locker for yet one more year.”

At those words the High Priest began the slow, dirge-like words of the first hymn. His voice was soon joined by hundreds more, rising and falling together in haunting harmony, praying for the strength of a God who had already been brought to his knees.

Glancing to his left, Arden noticed that Sybina did not sing. Such a thing was not unheard of – there were some who felt their abilities too mean for Godly ears – but it struck him as odd nevertheless. A press of fingers against his elbow drew his attention back towards Valory, whose gaze rested on him once more. Valory’s lips quirked in an affectionate half-smile even as they formed the words of the hymn. His fingers skirted beneath the embroidered edge of Arden’s cloak to rest against his arm; Arden could feel the heat of his fingers through the thin linen of his tunic.

Arden shifted, folding his arms across his chest. He inched his fingertips over until they brushed against Valory’s own, hidden beneath both cloak and elbow. It was unwise, perhaps, but the brief flash of one of Valory’s rare smiles made the risk seem well worth it.

The High Priest cast another flower into the sea, changing the tune to a familiar uplifting melody. Arden allowed his voice to lift and join that of Valory’s and those around them. Fingers laced together, they honored their fallen God on this longest, darkest night: the last hours of calm before the storm.

…

“What do we know?” Siath asked, shoulders sagging as though the circlet gracing his brow was as heavy as his ceremonial crown.

“The best we can do is make inferences based on what you Saw, my Lord,” Verne replied, frowning down at his copious notes. He had begun recording accounts of Siath’s visions from the moment Siath had awoken, often using whatever scraps of paper were available.

“The situation in Dramor has turned for the worse. Extremism has hijacked the sultanate, and according to my Lieutenant, the government is run by men who have awaited – even sought – the demon’s return. There is little room for a moderate countermovement; not with the Reckoning upon us,” Valory offered, leaning back in his chair, a steaming mug of coffee in one hand.

“Which raises no small question about Lester’s loyalty,” Verne said.

“Perhaps the situation in Arrynmathár . . . no, what am I saying? It’s inconceivable that Lester wouldn’t have known the true cause behind the political unrest his dispatches described,” Siath sighed. “What’s to be done about him?”

“Leave him to me,” Valory said. “I have every intention of calling him out during council.”

“Do you think such an aggressive approach wise?”

“If he isn’t truthful with us before the council, I’ll extract the truth from him later. We can’t risk the possibility of having a Dramorian loyalist in our midst,” Valory replied.

“Not with Zathár returned from the locker,” Verne agreed.

“What makes this generation of worshippers so special?” Siath wondered, rubbing at a silvered temple. “What made their call so powerful that the demon was able to break free from his bonds?”

“Arden knows more about the particulars than any of us, I suspect,” Valory said. When no reply seemed forthcoming, he glanced over towards his Steward. “Arden?”

Arden had only been half-listening to the conversation; a large part of his thoughts were devoted to studying the sitting room of the King’s suite, notable for its lack of opulence. The finely-wrought bookshelves, rare volumes, and carefully-curated art implied wealth, but demonstrated elevated taste rather than elevated social status. The more he saw of Siath, the more he understood Valory’s reverence for his older brother.

“My brother is admiring the books,” Verne said.

Siath’s smile was indulgent. “I had heard you were a peerless scholar, Lord Arden. You are free to borrow any works that pique your interest.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Arden paused, eyes sticking on a thick volume on the far side of the room.

“Careful, my Lord. My brother will take you up on that offer,” Verne warned.

“Books are meant to be read,” Siath shrugged. “Besides, it seems he has already found something to his taste.”

“You have the Book of the Damned,” Arden said without preamble.

Verne blanched. Valory smirked, sipping at his coffee. Siath nodded. “You can borrow for recreational reading as well, but yes, I have the book. I assume you require it for research.”

“I have been unable to find the thing after a decade of hunting, so few copies remain. This is excellent – a thorough study of it will help our cause far more than the few translated excerpts in my possession,” Arden continued, forgetting to add the honorific in his excitement.

Siath seemed pleased by the omission. “I wonder if it can tell us why the demon would return now, at this exact moment in history,” he mused.

“He is answering a call,” Arden replied.

“Yes, but his worshippers have called him for centuries.”

“Not the ones that mattered,” Arden countered. “All of the study I have done has led me to believe that the voice of a single man could have more power than thousands. Someone with great strength made the call, and it was enough to help the Damned One break his bonds.”

“You do not believe it was any failure of Fángon’s, then,” Siath pressed.

“No,” Arden said. “In the Scriptures we are cautioned against growing slack in our offerings, lest Fángon’s power wane in absence of our devotion. Our devotion is steady, however. The Reckoning is not our failure: it is Zathár’s success.”

“It is not wise to say his name, brother,” Verne cautioned.

Arden let out a huff of incredulous laughter. “I hardly see how naming the thing can make matters any worse. He is already here, and has wrested control of the door to the locker away from Fángon. We will see much evil in the days to come; let us not be cowed by his mere name.”

“Well said,” Valory agreed. “Naming him allows us to tell him for what he is, rather than permitting him to grow to mystical proportions through heresy and myth.”

“Exactly, Val,” Arden said, formality all but forgotten as their conversation progressed. He ignored the look of horror on Verne’s face. “Yet it is not only Zathár we need worry about. The demon has many allies, not the least of them the other occupants of the locker.”

“The creatures,” Valory nodded, “both at land and at sea. At least we know what’s plaguing our shipping lanes and overland routes.”

“ _My Lord_ is correct,” Verne agreed, stressing Valory’s title with a significant glance at his brother. “The return of the demon is a tidy explanation.”

“I wonder whether such an explanation will be helpful in a practical sense. Our navy has struggled with desertion since the creatures first appeared. The mystery of their origin has heightened nerves, but I can’t imagine knowing that creatures of the last age have risen from the locker will help matters any,” Arden sighed.

“It’s not what our fighting men want to hear, no, but it gives us something to work with. Zathár’s name inspires fear in the best of us, but it’s naught compared to the fear of the unknown,” Siath replied.

Arden tilted his head. “I’ll concede that point.”

“Not all of our foes will be creatures,” Valory cautioned, taking another sip of his coffee. “We must assume that Zathár has returned to his ancestral seat in Dramor. Based on Imran’s testimony, I doubt his return was opposed by Indar’s ruling Houses.”

“The sultan is under Zathár’s thumb,” Siath agreed.

“The man is no fool. How can he not see what ruin Zathár will bring to his lands?” Valory wondered.

“At the beginning of this age, the Dramorian elite approached Zathár and his ilk from a different perspective. Rather than fight him and risk enslavement, they granted him their service and allegiance in return for a privileged position in his court,” Arden said. “There are some – the sultan among them – who still stand by that decision.”

“Yet it bore little fruit for them the first time around,” Valory pointed out.

Arden shrugged. “All notions of morality aside, you must admit it makes a certain amount of sense. For one without scruples, service as one of Zathár’s overlords will still yield greater wealth and power than a position as a Dramorian noble in a free Eastern World.”

“My brother has cut to the heart of Dramorian motives, my Lords,” Verne said.

“He has indeed.” Siath let out a long sigh. “We cannot underestimate the power of Zathár’s promises, either. In my visions he spoke sweet words of peace and prosperity for Oceana. Lies, all, but tempting nevertheless. For a nation in dire straits, I imagine the temptation would be even greater. Perhaps we have not helped our own cause in this past age. Had we given more to Dramor that they might have prospered without aid of the demon . . .”

“No,” Valory countered, “this does not fall upon our shoulders. Our forebears have gone the route of diplomacy time and again, only to have to fend off unprovoked violence at our borders. If we had put our hands up, they would have robbed us blind.”

“No people can be so wholly evil,” Siath protested.

“Wholly evil, no,” Arden said, “but they are desperately poor, save for the riches amassed by a few. They have neither the wealth nor the resources that we do – small wonder they covet our lands. Zathár has promised them what we would not: more arable acreage, control of the Anaphean peninsula, the opportunity to build a navy and control sea-trade.”

“Does that justify their betrayal of their fellow man?” Valory asked.

“You asked me to explain why, not to place blame,” Arden countered.

“They covet more than they are due. Is that not blameworthy?”

“More than they are due, perhaps, but they do not covet without reason. The reparations that were required of them, all that was stripped of them—”

“At the end of the last age, when Illen still walked these shores! Is Oceana to stand trial for what was done centuries ago?” Valory asked.

“Stand trial? No – and I don’t believe that we should serve the sentence for what our ancestors have done – but to be fair, Eramen and Drand partitioned territory and resources in a way that made Dramor less livable by far. That was their right, and it was done for a reason, but we can’t now pretend that we don’t understand why Dramor seeks to capture better lands.”

“For the good of the few alone,” Valory muttered.

Arden raised a brow. “Are any of us surprised by the avarice of already-wealthy men? That seems to be a universal truth.”

“In Oceana—”

“The disparity is not so stark, perhaps, but it exists. Those who have never done without never seem to have enough.”

“Would you name us among them?” Verne asked.

Arden knew he treaded on dangerous ground, but forged ahead anyway. “Aren’t we? But if that is our lot then I promise you, we can do better than our fellows. I don’t endorse the actions of the Dramorian elite, but we will not win this war by remaining ignorant of their motives. If we have inadvertently had a hand in all of this, then so be it. We must own that and proceed accordingly.”

Siath nodded, drumming his fingers on the table. “Your Steward is a wise man, brother – and a brave one, willing to say things that neither of us wants to hear.”

Arden felt Valory press his knee beneath the table and fought the urge to smile. This was no time for indulgent displays of affection. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“My brother and I do not share all opinions,” Verne said, “but I suspect he will agree with me in this: when we decide what our next move will be, we must consider the motives and desires of Dramor. Zathár will pacify them first with a gift of their choosing, then extract payment for it.”

“Dramor wants Anaphe,” Siath said.

“Just so, my Lord; and giving Anaphe to Dramor also serves the purpose of weakening Armathia’s defenses. It is a base for a march upon our capital,” Verne continued. “We have all of the evidence we need that the peninsula is Zathár’s next target.”

“Indeed,” Siath’s voice was grave. “Lord Arden, you haven’t yet heard the latest from the Anaphean court – there was another assassination attempt.”

“Another? So soon?”

“Our niece is more of a threat than Dramor had anticipated,” Verne said.

“Little Fiona?” Arden asked. “Has her bid for Conrad’s title been so strong?”

“Impressively so. She has a great many loyal supporters. In just a few short months the common people have begun to sing her praises. She is a symbol of hope for them. My informants are amazed by it all – as am I,” Verne replied.

“She is powerful enough to have made some serious enemies,” Arden frowned.

“Yes, and she has had some trouble within the court regarding the legitimacy of her claim. She may be Anaphe’s darling at the moment, but she is worried for the future. She wrote of her worries even before the attempt itself; they can only have grown from such an incident. The assassin was very nearly successful – her life was saved by the quick thinking of the Captain of the City Guard.” Verne glanced down at his papers. “She has asked after you.”

“Me?” Arden furrowed his brow.

“Tales of your exploits at Illen’s Arm have already reached her ears. Even her attempt at a formal turn of phrase could not conceal her excitement at the prospect.”

“I wonder whether any claim I had in Anaphe would be accepted easier than hers,” Arden said wryly.

“I thought her interest was more personal than professional, but your point is taken.”

“You are not incorrect, Lord Arden,” Siath added. “The situation in Anaphe is dire. I doubt this was the last attempt to overthrow our control of the city. We needs must stabilize the region, eradicate dissenters within the court, and ready the city for siege. As convinced as I am of your abilities, I do not think you would be the man to do so.”

“Not alone,” Arden agreed, glancing over towards Valory.

“I am to Anaphe, then,” Valory said.

“With Lady Sybina at your side you can draw upon Edmund’s network. Whoever is behind Conrad’s death must meet his own – immediately. We have not the time to play at trials. Let the court of Anaphe know that the Regent has arrived, and that the call to arms is nigh,” Siath said.

“As you command,” Valory said.

Siath winced at his tone. “I hate to ask this of you. I know what trouble it causes.”

“It is my duty,” Valory answered. Verne’s deepening frown went unnoticed.

“Yes, and you will do it with the utmost care – of that I have no doubt.” Siath let out a long, weary sigh. “But as your brother—”

Sparing a glance for Verne, Valory interrupted, “In these matters, speak not as my brother, but as my King.”

Siath cottoned on to Valory’s demand. _Verne does not yet know._ “Very well, then. Preparations for the wedding will begin, and to Anaphe you must. As for you, Lord Arden—”

“Yes, my Lord?” Arden managed around the painful lump in his throat.

“It is a hateful thing to deprive my brother of his Steward, but you are needed elsewhere,” Siath said.

Valory’s head snapped up. “You cannot mean that I must go to Anaphe without any council,” he glared. Arden felt Valory’s fingers tighten over his knee once more.

“You will have allies in your men, my Lord, should they wish to relocate to Anaphe with you. Your brother had thought that giving you such a reprieve would make the transition easier,” Verne added. He masked his confusion well, but the question still hung behind his eyes.

“While I’m pleased to hear that I might keep my unit intact, I’d like to point out that Lieutenant Imran is a brilliant swordsman, but a rather abysmal politician,” Valory countered.

“Be that as it may, we have concerns beyond the defense of Anaphe,” Siath said. “We cannot fight Zathár and his forces without aid. We must seek out allies.”

“Saria?” Arden asked. “The overland route would be a death sentence, what with Zathár’s creatures about, and the sea route . . .”

“Nearly impossible in the cold months – yes, I know. Have we any other choice?” Siath asked. “I need a diplomat who can convey the power of the Oceanic throne, the scope of the threat, and bargain on our behalf. There is but a handful of such men who can do so and also possess advanced knowledge of the Sarian language and customs.”

“If there are others, then why take my Steward from me?” Valory snapped.

“None of the men I speak of are sailors,” Siath replied. “The journey will be arduous this time of year – and fraught with danger. I would only send another if you could come up with a very compelling reason why Lord Arden was needed elsewhere.”

Valory held his brother’s stare for a moment before dropping his gaze back down to his mug. “Alright,” he said, defeated. “So long as Arden agrees to the scheme.”

“I will do as my Lord commands,” Arden said. It was clear that he did not refer to the King.

“You’ll go to Oldred then,” Valory murmured.

“Thank you, Val. This is for the best,” Siath said. “I had planned on proposing a diplomatic mission to Saria in council, but wouldn’t have wanted to spring this upon you without prior notice.”

“The notice is appreciated.” Valory’s tone was flat. He placed his empty coffee cup down, mug clinking against the mosaic surface of the table. “If you’ll excuse me, brother.”

“We’ve hardly—”

“I imagine that’s all the business we needed to conduct today; you’ve spent the last hour building up to this last command. If that’s the case, I plan on taking some time before council.” He pushed back from the table, legs squeaking against the stone floor.

“Please Val, I know that this is not happy news for you—”

“Given this change in plans, some of my proposals must be altered. I must think on them – unless you had something more to discuss with me?” Valory’s face was impassive.

Siath shook his head, granting Valory’s leave in spite of his worries. “I will see you there, then.”

“Brother. Lord Verne,” Valory executed a curt bow before heading for the door.

Arden stood when Valory did, mostly out of reflex. “My Lord—”

Siath anticipated his request. “You may.”

“My Lord. Verne.” Arden executed a more formal bow than the one Valory had chosen before turning and following the Regent out into the hallway.

He managed to catch up after a few strides. Valory cast a sideways glance at him when he fell into step, but didn’t comment. Despite Valory’s supposed reasons for leaving Siath’s chambers, it seemed he had little to say.

They wound their way through the palace corridors in heavy silence. Out of the corner of his eye Arden could see the pinched look to Valory’s features, the stiffness with which he carried himself. Arden had never had the misfortune of standing upon the deck of a foundering vessel, but he wondered whether this was how it would feel.

They pulled up to an abrupt halt in a quiet hallway behind the council chamber. A large arched window looked out over one of the palace’s many courtyards. Arden recognized the area as a particular favorite gathering space for the young noblewomen; the colorful foliage tended to attract the songbirds that they so loved. After a moment of searching, he picked out Sybina’s form amongst a group near the gazebo. _Valory’s intended_. The thought made something terrible twist in his gut. It was so much harder to look upon her now that a date was set. It had finally started to seem real.

“I’m sorry,” Valory said, not turning away from the window.

Arden shook his head. “You don’t relish in this turn of events any more than I do.”

Valory’s mouth flattened into a thin line. “I had thought you would come to Anaphe, that we might defend the city side-by-side.” He looked away from the courtyard. “Perhaps that was selfish of me.”

“It’s what I would have wanted as well, even if we wouldn’t have been permitted the same freedom of movement after . . . well.” Arden trailed off. “But that time is not yet come. There remains much to do before we depart.”

“Yes.”

“This is our duty and it cannot be changed,” he continued, voice tight. “Like it or not, I will carry out your brother’s orders to the best of my ability. Do not worry for my sake.”

Valory took a step forward, moving just out of line of sight from the courtyard. He pressed into Arden’s space, sliding a hand around the side of his neck, fingers bumping over sets of silvered scars to press at his nape. Arden felt the surge of Valory’s enchantment pulling against the tension knotted there by cares and concerns.

“You grow stronger,” Arden remarked. The signature of Valory’s enchantment was powerful and familiar; the feeling of it draining away his tension headache was pleasurable for all its intensity.

“The Master Healer has concerned himself with my training.”

Arden felt the pad of Valory’s thumb bump over one of his scars. He reached up to cover Valory’s hand with his own. “I’m glad.” He let out a long sigh of breath. “It would be a shame to waste such a gift. But this is not what you left your brother’s chambers to discuss – although I suspect you had no intention of talking strategy to begin with.”

“No,” Valory agreed.

Arden hummed a response as Valory dropped his hands to his sides and bent forward, resting their foreheads together for a few long moments. He shut his eyes, taking the request for comfort for what it was. The coming weeks would be a struggle, but he had to remember that however difficult it was for him to watch Valory marry another, Valory was the one who would have to live out the sham in excruciatingly intimate detail.

Letting out a soundless sigh, Valory straightened and turned towards the window once more. Arden sidled up next to him, pressing their shoulders together. Side-by-side they watched the women mill about below, listening to the musical strains of laughter and birdsong that drifted up towards them on a gentle southerly breeze.

They stood in silence for some time, the words and thoughts that hung between them proving too cumbersome to voice aloud. The courtyard below emptied as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Even in the cooler months the midday sunlight was enough to burn skin. The birds sought respite from the growing heat as well, their chitters and calls dying down as they fled to the shade.

Arden moved first, turning away from the window. “Council will begin soon. Our brothers will be wondering what delay we’ve encountered.”

Valory nodded. “To council, then.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

…

Imran answered the summons with punctuality, care, and no small amount of trepidation. The King’s pardon had done wonders for his social acumen within Armathian society, but he hadn’t thought that it would have any impact upon his relationship with the Oceanic clergy. In the past, several priests had tried to shake his faith in Arrar with predictable results. During his tenure as Valory’s Lieutenant, most had learned to let him alone, acknowledging that his devotion to the sun god would never wane. As he picked his way up the aisle of the cathedral, he wondered whether his new citizenship would force him to pander to a church that wasn’t his own.

The High Priest was seated in a pew in the wings, bereft of the ceremonial robes that Imran had come to associate with him. Clad in simple homespun linen, he was far easier to approach than Imran would have thought. Hearing footsteps, the man looked up, dark eyes fixing on him.

“Come, Lieutenant – sit with me.”

“As you wish.” Imran perched himself upon the edge of the pew, tensed in anticipation of whatever confrontation the priest had planned. He took a long, slow breath, willfully relaxing his muscles in a technique he had learned during his early military training. He could not afford to react with contempt to any proselytizing– no matter how odious it was.

“I have a favor to ask,” the High Priest began without preamble. “That must sound presumptuous, coming from someone who has so studiously avoided you these long years, but I am in need of your help.”

“ _My_ help?”

“You came recommended by Lord Steward Arden. He is a great supporter of yours. His argument helped me see that splitting hairs over the finer points within the Eastern Scriptures is not in our best interest at present.”

“You have not called me to speak of Arrar, then,” Imran surmised.

The High Priest frowned, deepening the furrows around his mouth. “No, not today – although Lord Arden seemed to think it might behoove me to better understand your faith.”

“What is this favor then, if you do not seek a convert?” Imran asked, voice sharp.

“Peace, Lieutenant. I have a story to tell, and a request to make. I hope you will see fit to hear me out.”

Imran inclined his head, studying the old sage sat before him for a long moment. “Very well.”

“The High Priests of Armathia have been charged with the protection of the cathedral and all of its endowments since the time of Eramen’s rule. In particular, we are the keepers of the source of Illen’s Blessing. It is what the capital was originally built to protect. Have you heard aught of the history of the city?”

“Some, yes, from the Regent,” Imran said.

“Good. Then you know that I am charged with a heavy duty – as were all of my predecessors,” the High Priest continued. “The men of my order have long sought every possible advantage in the name of furthering our cause. Some of our tools have been  . . . unconventional.”

“Such as?”

“During our training, we make a study of the Book of Zathár in order to better know our enemy,” the priest replied.

Imran froze. “What is this implication you make – that I am familiar with it?”

“To the contrary, I know you have an aversion to the demon and his worshippers. As I said, this is a part of my story. The High Priests of Armathia possess a single, unmarked copy of the Book of the Damned, studied in preparation for his return. That is all.”

“Then what do you need from me?” Imran snapped. “I know little of such matters.”

“The copy of the Book in my possession is an Oceanic transcription of the original. The language in it is old, but I had always thought it a fair interpretation, as it uses many of the same words found in the other Books of the Eastern Scriptures. Lord Arden, however, has given me cause to second-guess my assumption. He has come upon a copy of the Book in the original Dramorian. He is a better study at your language than I, but both of us have stumbled over some inconsistencies.”

“You want me to translate the Book of the Damned,” Imran said, voice flat.

“Not exactly,” the High Priest corrected. “We want you to verify our interpretation of a few passages. The Dramorian language is so much more precise than ours – we worry that the copy I have long held as correct could in fact be mistranslated. I fear that some of my assumptions about the Reckoning may have been based on the connotations lent to the text by an Oceanic turn of phrase. Surely you understand why it is important for us to be certain about such matters – especially now.”

“Still, you ask me to touch and read that thing,” Imran frowned, noting the books that lay in a careful stack on the pew beside the High Priest. “Matters of the demon are not for me to speak of. You should speak to Lord Lester. His command of Dramorian is adequate.”

“He has already answered another’s call. His return would never be upon your shoulders,” the High Priest pointed out.

“That is not the point.”

“I understand that this is a distasteful request – perhaps even more so because of where you are from – but we need your help. Lord Arden has cautioned me against seeking Lester’s aid. There is some question of his loyalty in court.”

Imran sniffed. “So you ask a blood-born Dramorian instead.”

“Perhaps, but you are Dramorian no longer,” he replied, nodding towards the strips on Imran’s collar. “You’re the only man in this city save Lester who can claim fluency, and I suspect that your command of the tongue far surpasses his. Your help could grant us a great advantage. Does that not outweigh the edicts to which you have long held yourself?”

Imran wavered, glaring at the stack of books. “This is no simple thing.”

“I am well aware of that. Steward Arden informed me that it was heretical to ask you to do such a thing, and that you would be worried over displeasing Arrar.”

“He may not be your God, but he is good,” Imran insisted, adamant.

“I am not so bold as to imagine that I can interpret the thoughts of our Gods, Lieutenant. Still, I would hope that Arrar would realize that, in putting your hands upon this Book, you are not flagrantly disrespecting his wishes. Rather, you would be devoting yourself to the task of prolonging his reign.”

Imran pressed his lips into a thin line, remaining silent for some time as he debated the High Priest’s words. Could he justify obedience to spirit of the Book of Arrar rather than the letter? Was it egoism to think himself stronger than his brother and father, that he might read the words of the demon and not be tempted?

Then again, he knew firsthand the difficulties inherent in translating between Dramorian and Oceanic. If he refused, what information would remain ever locked inside the pages of the volume that Arden had found?

Imran extended a hand, palm up. “Give it to me.”

The High Priest slid backwards on the pew, hurriedly arranging the volumes between them. He lined up the Book and its translation, the latter of which had passages underlined and notated in a neat, unassuming hand. Most of the scrawl seemed centered around two distinct phrases and the context in which they were seated. Glancing back and forth between the original Dramorian and the Oceanic translation, Imran could see the cause for confusion. It was nearly impossible to translate the text without leaving gaps in the necessary information.

“Lord Arden was fixated particularly on the nature of Zathár’s so-called ‘dark armies’. I don’t know how familiar you are with the Book of Fángon, Lieutenant, but that phrase appears there as well in the chapters prophesizing the Reckoning. It states several lines later that they come from a ‘dark point of origin’, which we had long taken to refer to Arrynmathár. It was thought to be a warning from the Gods that Dramor would betray the Eastern World yet again when the time came,” the High Priest said, indicating the two passages with a forefinger.

Imran frowned. “I have read some of the Book of Fángon. I remember those passages.”

“Lord Arden and I both supposed that the ‘dark armies’ referred to the men of the sultan who would cross the border alongside the Damned One.”

“The words mean something like that, but not that exactly.” Imran’s brow furrowed. “This is difficult for me; I do not have the Oceanic words. It must have been the same with the man who transcribed this book; he did not have the words either. I will try to explain. Tell me if I am not clear.”

“Do you think it a mistranslation?” the High Priest asked.

“It is incomplete, but not incorrect. The – what are they called – the describing words that speak of these ‘armies’—”

“Adjectives?” the priest prompted.

“Those, yes. They do not refer to men alone, or they would be the masculine form. They are plural, but neuter. There is the implication of ‘things’.”

“By things, do you suppose the text describes the creatures we have been seeing of late? Is it they, then, who are the foot soldiers of Zathár’s armies?” the High Priest asked.

“There must be creatures as well, yes. They all come from that deepness.”

The High Priest looked back down at the text. “Forgive me, ‘deepness’?”

“Ah.” Imran’s frown grew. “The original Dramorian for ‘dark point of origin’ is . . . complicated. The words do not mean ‘dark’, nor do they mean ‘point’, although I cannot myself come up with a better translation that is as concise. They refer to darkness, yes, but darkness of spirit as well as physical darkness. The Dramorian word refers to something very specific. It also could be translated as deep, or down, or below, or bottom, or heavy. There are more meanings, I am sure, but my Oceanic—”

“Your Oceanic is more than adequate, Lieutenant. You have already told me far more than Steward Arden and I were able to parse out after several hours of work. Please, keep going.”

Imran nodded. “This is an old word, but sometimes you see it on maps. It can mean cave, but in the old stories it is used to mean something more like ‘chasm’. It is a very specific thing.”

“It sounds as though you are describing the locker.”

Imran pursed his lips, rereading the passage. “And perhaps I am.”

A beat passed during which both men processed the implications of such a thing.

“So Zathár’s dark armies rise from the locker with him, then. They are the creatures of old that have returned to walk with him during the Reckoning. That makes enough sense, I suppose, as their return was also included in Fángon’s prophesy.”

“No, the dark armies are both. Forgive me, I did not make this clear enough before. The words used are inclusive. They do not refer to creatures alone, they do not refer to men alone,” Imran elaborated.

“So Zathár marches from Arrynmathár with armies of men, accompanied by the creatures he brought with him from the locker,” the High Priest corrected.

“No,” Imran said, visibly frustrated. “The armies are not two separate things; they both come from the same place. Either the men and creatures come from the locker, or they come from Arrynmathár – but they do not come from both, and they will arrive together. That is made clear in the text, though perhaps not to one who does not speak Dramorian as a mother tongue.”

The High Priest’s brow creased, eyes darting back and forth between the original and the translation. “How can such a thing be possible? Some of the creatures that we have seen in the past season have not walked our shores for hundreds – nay, thousands of years. They must have come from the locker when Zathár threw open the door. But to say that the armies of Dramor come from the locker as well . . . I would call it hyperbole, but the Book of the Damned is not known for such.”

Imran shrugged. “This book is heresy for a reason. I do not know how a man – let alone an army of men – might come from the locker, but that is what it says. I am a fighting man, but I am well lettered.”

The High Priest nodded, distracted. “Steward Arden assured me that you were as well learned as the best of us; I do not doubt your interpretation.”

“Then the book is as I have said: lies, all. Lies of the demon.” His words did not serve to comfort the High Priest, who seemed to be reading the Dramorian phrases over and over as if they would spark some sense of comprehension. “You are troubled,” he observed.

The High Priest glanced up. “It is a troubling matter.”

“You suspect something that I cannot see,” Imran added. “Or you know something that I do not.”

“Perhaps,” the High Priest allowed, “although I hope that my newly-founded hunch is mere conjecture rather than a novel – and factual – reinterpretation of Scripture. I . . .” he hesitated. “I need to think these things over.”

“I am dismissed, then,” Imran surmised.

“Rude of me, I know,” the High Priest sighed. “I wish I could share my thoughts with you. Let me rephrase that: I _will_ share my thoughts with you, but I need some time to think and discuss this with my fellow clergymen.”

“It is not rude to inform a man that his work is done,” Imran replied. “But I would like if you would send me word when you decide what all of this means.”

“Of course,” the High Priest said, distractedly scanning over the lines in question once more.

Imran stood. “Perhaps it is nothing,” he suggested.

The High Priest stood with him, taking his offered arm and clasping it in parting. “Illen willing, you are right. Thank you for your help, Lieutenant.”

“I have borne bad news,” he protested.

“Perhaps,” the High Priest admitted, “although I would far rather get it now than when it was too late to act upon it. Enjoy the rest of your time in Armathia – I will be in touch.”

…

Although Valory and Arden both remained acutely aware of what lay in store for them, the endless rounds of meetings, closed-door council sessions, and social obligations kept them from dwelling on their assignments. If their habit of retiring to Valory’s chambers at the end of each night had an air of finality to it, neither man acknowledged thinking so. They continued to work side-by-side with the quiet ease they had become known for.

An old hurt of Arden’s from their _Windjammer_ days was assuaged when, one morning, Valory appeared in his preferred corner of the library to request his presence at an interrogation. Though he did not relish the process, Arden was nonetheless pleased by the inclusion. Any misgivings he had were further assuaged when he learned that no preparation had been made for any sophisticated technique; Valory intended only to leverage information gathered from other sources to extract what else the Commodore might know. Without the pressure of time, it seemed, the board was an anathema to them both.

The faint aroma of Ehrin’s spice cakes clung to the dead end where Félix’s cell was located, indicating a recent visit on her part. Arden couldn’t begrudge her the activity; it seemed that she had gained a renewed taste for languages from conversing with the Commodore, and certainly hadn’t slacked off her promise to Valory to report any valuable findings. Neither of them had been surprised to hear of Félix’s connection to Belenese royalty, but he hadn’t anticipated exactly _how_ close they had been to ransoming the brother of the province’s Lord without even knowing it.

The Commodore heard their approach, and was standing up at the barred door as they reached his cell. His hair had grown long enough to hang into his eyes and curl over his collar, tendrils of which he batted at with impatience, hip cocked against the rough stone wall in a careful display of nonchalance.

“Commodore,” Valory greeted him, stepping up towards the bars. “Or should I call you by your other title?”

Félix met his stare. “ _Come to extract what payment you will, now that you know who I am_?”

“To be frank, your navy commission interests me far more than your birthright, particularly in light of recent events. As always, Commodore, I am after knowledge. I want to know what you know.”

Félix shrugged, bored, and turned away from the door of the cell.

“We know that the witches had an agreement with you, and with the Januzians. What I want to know is – did your alliance end with the Witch King, or were you bound by his more powerful allies?” Valory continued.

The look on Félix’s face made it clear that no words would be volunteered – at least not yet. He eyed the bars between them with a smirk, as though taunting Valory over his chosen method for interrogation. Valory frowned. He didn’t have the time to spend extracting information from the Commodore by force – nor did he particularly enjoy doing so. He hoped that what little Master Lawrence and Master Rubin had gleaned from the captured Westernese would be enough to break Félix’s uncooperative silence.

“You know the hour of Reckoning has come,” he said. “If your men know, then you know as well.”

“Hm.”

“Dramor must have been rife with requests for tribute and military aid. I say ‘requests’, but we all know the sultan’s tendency to couch demands in pretty language. It must have been a blow to the pride of the Westernese people to submit once more to Indar,” Valory continued.

Félix scowled. “We do not jump every time Dramor calls.”

“No, but you must have known that you would soon be marching to war in their name, and for little reward. The sultan will care naught what happens to the territories if Zathár triumphs. Your lands would be their first concession to the Damned One’s reign.”

“I’d imagine that’s why you accepted the help of the witches,” Arden said. “They are dark creatures, but it would have given the Westernese states some sort of bargaining power.”

“Westernese,” Félix snarled. “Enough with that hateful word. We are Madestan.”

Arden shook his head. There was something tickling at the back of his mind, something that he was missing. “Can you call yourself Madestan when your ancestral lands remain so divided? The Januzian forces we apprehended in Ithaka had only the vaguest notions of your plans.”

“ _My people have long awaited their time to rise to power as a free state. Scoff if you will, but our time has come_.”

Hearing the fury that underscored each of Félix’s words, Valory pressed their advantage, hoping that he would keep talking. “Dramor would never permit your unification; you know that as well as I. Did they promise autonomy in return for a campaign to the isles? Did you believe their lies? Dramor has sought an Eastern naval base since the dawn of this age, and they played you in an attempt to get it.”

Félix’s smile was dangerous. “Wrong.”

“I wonder how they will see fit to repay you now that you have both failed in your mission, _and_ alerted us to the nature of their plans.”

“You give the desert men too much credit. They are pawns. Soon they will wish for the fortunes of Madesta,” Félix said, drawing closer to the bars of his cell.

Valory opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by an elbow to the ribs from Arden. He glanced at his Steward in time to see the look of satisfaction cross his features. Whatever the riddle was, Arden had just solved it.

“It wasn’t Dramor who made a ‘promise to Madesta’, was it?” Arden surmised. Félix’s head snapped up. “And though the Witch King has great power, I can’t imagine he was your ultimate master. You acted on behalf of Zathár himself, didn’t you?”

Félix’s dark eyes met Arden’s. “Your Steward is clever, Prince Valory.”

“Clever enough to know that you have made a terrible error in judgment,” Arden replied. “What’s that turn of phrase – out of the heat and into the flame? The demon does not a gentle bedfellow make.”

“ _So long as we remain his faithful servants, he will ask neither tax nor tithe from us. Madesta will come into her own under his reign_.”

“Do you truly believe that, Commodore? I had not taken you for a fool,” Valory scoffed.

“ _One day you will rue the things you have said_ ,” Félix warned.

“The demon makes great promises and demands much in return. He has little intention of granting your wish. He wants you at odds with Dramor – allied only reluctantly under his name. Any greater cooperation would be a threat to his absolute rule. Do you see? Zathár is playing you.”

“ _He will give my people their freedom, and in return we will fight in his name_ ,” Félix said. “ _You and your Gods cannot prevent his rise. Oceana’s time is at an end_.”

“He will give you _nothing_ ,” Valory retorted. “Zathár cares not for the likes of men. He thinks us weak, vile, subservient—”

“ _It is the children of Eramen with whom he has a quarrel_ ,” Félix replied. “ _He has returned to this world to take up his seat in the desert. He will have Dramor, whether they know it or not. With Oceana he has an ancient score to settle. He has no business west of the mountains_.”

Arden considered the Commodore’s fervent declaration for a few long moments. “He sent you to the isles and gave you the aid of the witches. If Dramor knew naught of the work you are doing for Zathár – as you claim – then they have planned a number of strikingly coincidental attacks upon our borders. Consider what that may mean. What do you suppose he promised the sultan in exchange for his loyalty? The same freedom he promised to you? He is playing you off against one another.”

Félix scowled. “ _Your words are poison of the most unpersuasive kind_.”

“I doubt that, else you wouldn’t be so riled up,” Arden mused. “Nevertheless, it is clear that your orders did not come through dispatch. The demon spoke to your people directly.”

Félix’s silence only served to affirm Arden’s conclusion.

“Think what you will of Zathár’s intentions, but know that he holds no special regard for you,” Valory said. “He spoke to my brother as well. He offered him the very same sort of things.” Valory leaned in. “We both know that the demon wants nothing more than to chew Oceana up and spit it back out as a hollow shell of a nation, so why make such promises – and how are the promises made to you any weightier than those made to us?”

“Hm.” The set of Félix’s jaw betrayed his uncertainty.

“What, don’t believe me?” Valory raised a brow. “I’m sure, as the Lord of Belen’s brother, you were made privy to the sort of vision Zathár inspires. A gilt palace in the desert, set above an awesome chasm that clove the earth straight down to Fángon’s door. A massive throne in a maze-like hall, carved with the grotesque faces of devils. A hooded figure sitting upon the dais, giant, terrible, with features so twisted that they continue to haunt the recipient’s nightmares—”

“ _You lie_.” Félix’s voice had an unnatural gravel to it, nearly breaking on the last syllable.

Arden exchanged a quick glance with Valory. There was something off about Félix’s tone. He considered all that they knew about the Commodore and his support of Zathár. Much of their information on the man’s motives had come from Ehrin’s descriptions of his lifelong quest to free his homeland from Dramorian oversight. Considering both his status and political views, Arden wondered whether or not Zathár might have spoken to Félix himself rather than his father or brother. It would explain his reaction: especially if he had been led to believe that he alone would be privy to such visions and promises.

“To the contrary, Commodore – we are telling the truth as we see it,” Arden replied. “That is what we know of Zathár and his methods from the King’s own description.”

“You have allied yourself with the scourge of mankind; a tempter with no honor, with no regard for what he promises or who he promises it to,” Valory added.

“ _You will not sway me_ ,” Félix said through his teeth. “ _Not while there is breath in my body. I will fight until the last for the freedom and prosperity of my people. I will not have any gluttonous Oceanic Prince lecture me on morals_.” His anger was feral in its intensity.

“If the morality of your choice has no weight for you, then what does it matter whether you fight for Zathár or fight alongside your fellow man?” Valory asked. Arden exchanged a quick glance with him, immediately realizing what he was planning to offer.

“ _We would never fight in Oceana’s name_ ,” Félix sneered.

“Not in our name – but in the name of prosperity of all men,” Valory countered.

“ _And what, exchange one overlord for another_?”

“No. Fight alongside Oceana as a nation.”

“ _And afterwards_?” Félix eyed Valory with no small amount of mistrust.

“The sovereignty of Madesta as a nation would be recognized by Oceana and her allies. Dramor would be devastated by Zathár’s defeat. Their scattered armies would be no match for a united Madesta. Think, Commodore – you could have Madestan diplomats within our council. We could open up vigorous trade networks. It could bring peace and prosperity to both our people,” Valory pressed.

“ _And what guarantee have I that such an offer will not be withdrawn once you have gotten what you wanted from us_?” Félix asked.

“What, did the guarantees of a demon seem more trustworthy?” Valory scoffed.

“ _You Oceanic talk big about duty towards one’s fellow man, but we have never seen such aid: not until you are foundering and desperate_ ,” Félix replied. “ _Do not think we have forgotten the history of the mountain border. Oceana has only let us alone out of inability to lead a successful campaign into the West. My people – and those of the other provinces – will never accept your proposal_.”

“Will they hear it, at least?” Arden asked. “Your tribal council draws near. Is Madestan hostility towards us so profound that a diplomatic envoy would be turned away?”

Félix scowled. “ _I will not sponsor such a mockery of our council_.”

“So we _can_ lobby for our cause in Zaránd,” Arden mused. “Does Dramor send diplomats as well?”

“ _Dramor has not deigned to participate in many years. Nor will you secure a slot. Not without invitation_.”

“I suspect we have already secured invitation,” Valory said, raising a brow. “Unless you think your own value so little that we cannot barter against your ransom for the opportunity to be heard.”

“ _I would rather die on the board than be used as a bargaining chip by an Oceanic pig_ ,” Félix spat.

“Unfortunate,” Valory said, turning away from the bars. Félix stared back silently, shoulders tense with anger. “It seems there is little else for us to discuss, then. I think we have all we need to know for the time being. Arden?”

“I have nothing further to ask,” Arden shook his head.

Félix spun away from the door to his cell, stalking back towards the pallet against the wall and turning his back on the two of them. It was a calculated, petty show of disrespect.

“Let us go, then. We have much to discuss.”

“Yes,” Arden agreed, moving to follow Valory back up the hallway.

“And Félix,” Valory added, watching the Commodore’s spine stiffen at the use of his given name, “Don’t let the last of those good luck cakes go to waste. It would be a shame to dishonor Miss Ehrin’s hand in the galley by eating them stale.”

“Ehrin will be furious with you if he takes out your words on her,” Arden murmured as they proceeded back towards the upper levels of the fort.

“Quite true. I worry that he grows desperate, however, and that she has a blind spot for him. He must know that he will face consequences for attempting to trifle with her, should we prove too difficult.”

“She’s made of tougher mettle than most.”

“That doesn’t account for what a fanatic might do in the name of desperation,” Valory countered.

“Do you think his devotion to his cause mere fanaticism?” Arden wondered.

“I don’t know,” Valory admitted. “It seems that his devotion flourishes at the exclusion of reason – but I wonder whether or not I would feel the same were Oceana in similar straits.”

“Perhaps good will come of her association with him. I’d wager she has softened him up some.”

“Or the months in captivity have.”

“No doubt.” Arden glanced sidelong at him as they passed through the entrance to the cells and back into the fort proper. “What do you intend to do with regards to the Commodore’s ransom and the tribal council in Zaránd?”

Valory’s teeth worried at his lower lip as he considered the dilemma. “We will have to be very selective in who we send.”

“You were serious, then, about countering Zathár’s offer with one of our own.”

“If the Commodore is honest in his devotion to his people—”

“That’s a big ‘if’,” Arden pointed out.

“True,” Valory admitted, “but hear me out. _If_ the Commodore is not a fanatic and _if_ he is yet so devoted to his cause that he believes the end justifies the means, then perhaps we can yet appeal to his sense of reason.”

“You want to promise him the same end, but with a less odious set of means.”

“Precisely.”

“He seemed to think an alliance with Oceana odious enough,” Arden replied.

“A sentiment which may or may not be shared by his countrymen,” Valory admitted. “If we were to make the prospect of alliance with us more attractive than alliance with Zathár, however, we could stand a chance.”

Arden blew out a breath. “That’ll be no small feat.”

“Which is precisely why I said we would have to be careful in our choice of diplomats. I’d like to go myself, but with Anaphe as in such a fragile state, I can’t shirk my duties there.” He turned, considering Arden for a long moment. “You might get out of a Sarian winter after all.”

“You’d rather I went?” Arden asked.

“You and _Windjammer_. The only way to get to Zaránd in time would be to take the river passage, and for that we’d have to send a ship with a shallow draft that can point high to the wind. _Windjammer_ is ideal. As for finding someone with a deep knowledge of our situation, good command of Westernese dialects, and the political standing to sign a treaty in the name of the King . . . the list is short.”

“The campaign to Oldred might stand a greater chance at success,” Arden remarked. “The reception from the Western tribes will be lukewarm at best.”

“Yet as my brother has said, there are others who can make the journey to Saria. They are less qualified, perhaps, but they are capable. I’m not sure I would entrust any other with the mission to Zaránd. If we could persuade the Westernese to fight on our side . . . think of the coup that could be,” Valory argued.

“Do you suppose our brothers will agree?” Arden asked.

“We will make it so.” Valory glanced out of a narrow window as they rounded a corner. The sun was beginning to set. “Come by after the evening meal and we can begin to review a strategy. If we are to pose this idea to our brothers in front of the council, it must come well researched and highly recommended.”

“I’ll bring some notes,” Arden nodded.

“And perhaps a change of clothes, as well,” Valory smirked, eyes sweeping over his Steward’s form.

Arden’s lips twitched at the corners. “Whatever pleases you, my Lord.”

Valory snorted at his tone. “I assure you, Steward-mine, the pleasure will not be mine alone.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is finally "done". The council scene could probably use more editing, but I just. cannot. look. at. it. any. more.
> 
> Thanks for all the comments and encouragement :)

_The Season of Peace  
Erár the 5; 2422_

Upon entering the council chamber, Valory’s eyes rested first upon Arden out of force of habit. His Steward was wedged into a chair on the dais, stacks of books surrounding him like a shield on all sides. Bits of parchment stuck out of the books at odd angles, making the volumes appear as though Mizzen had gotten to them. Valory recognized the precise script of Arden’s handwriting peppering the little stubs of paper marking his research for the benefit of others. With his perfect memory, Arden had little need of such tricks.

The High Priest sat next to Arden, a sight that wasn’t wholly unexpected; Valory had been aware of how much time Arden had spent in the cathedral of late, consulting every possible source of information in preparation for council. He might have chuckled at the picture they presented – two men so singular and different in appearance, surrounded by half a library’s worth of volumes – were it not for the grave expression on Arden’s face and the hushed whispers with which they communicated.

A glance around the chamber revealed the amusement with which a few of the assembled councilors watched the Steward, whispering to one another while the man was too occupied with his work to notice. Lord Lester, the ringleader of Arden’s diminishing political opposition, started guiltily when he noticed the Regent’s early entrance. Whatever obsequious nonsense had been on the tip of his tongue froze, however, as Valory sharpened his watchful glare. Cowed, Lester lowered his eyes and soon thereafter the whispering stopped.

Valory approached the dais as Verne and Miran entered the hall, echoing the stiff greeting he had bestowed upon the councilors. Behind them walked the Queen, who pressed Valory’s hand fondly when she reached the front of the room. He kissed her cheek before settling into his own chair, arranging his legs so as not to disturb Arden’s carefully curated piles. At his approach the High Priest withdrew to his assigned chair as the last of the councilors took their seats, Edmund amongst the late arrivals.

Siath himself followed, his attendants flanking him on either side with armfuls of folios and trays of coffee and sweet rolls. The heavy doors swung shut behind them. The councilors all rose as Siath proceeded up the aisle, waving away their formal bows with an impatient hand. Like Valory, he had opted for a simpler style of dress: few present at this locked-door strategy session needed to see the King’s gilt-edged white robes of state to be reminded of his authority. As such, he and Valory only wore simple circlets upon their brows.

As Siath settled in, Valory leaned over to Arden, tapping his fingers against the table’s edge. Arden looked up sharply, quill stilling as he glanced around the chamber. He had been so deep in thought that he hadn’t noticed the passage of time, or the arrival of the King. Siath waved off their aborted gesture to get to their feet, already well tired of frivolous formality mere weeks into his kingship.

“Are the doors locked?” he asked, glancing over at Verne as he seated himself.

“Yes, my Lord,” the High Steward replied.

“And a guard detail outside?”

“As requested, my Lord.”

“Very good.” Siath shuffled his papers, smiling at the attendant who left a mug of coffee at his elbow. “Then let us begin. We all know why we are here:  we must act soon if we are to have any hope of overcoming the threat to our people. The time has come to make decisions that will determine Oceana’s fate. In this I wish for your advisement. Any with information or ideas relevant to our predicament may feel free to share them at this time. For now, consider the floor yours.”

The pregnant silence that followed Siath’s words was marked by the discomfited whispers of councilmembers and their allies. Though the men present had few qualms about making their opinions known, it seemed that no man wanted to be the first to speak on so weighty an issue.

Siath, frowning at the reluctance of his council, gestured towards Edmund’s seat. “Duke Edmund, you must have an opinion on the matter.”

“I am well-versed in the needs of Anaphe, my Lord, but I’m afraid that I can tell you little enough about the false Gods of Dramor,” Edmund replied.

Arden looked up from his notes once more. “You don’t remember any mention of the Damned One from family members, not even in childhood?” he asked.

“Certainly not.” Edmund appeared offended by the very suggestion.

“Odd,” Arden noted. “I’ve been led to believe that worship of the demon is prevalent amongst the Dramorian elite. Even if the loyalists in your family remained devoted to Arrar, they must have noticed the phenomenon.”

“That is preposterous,” Edmund spluttered.

Arden narrowed his eyes. “Anything but. My sources are quite trustworthy.”

“What, your army of _books_ , my Lord?” Edmund sneered. Arden opened his mouth to reply, but another beat him to it.

“The man you address with such disrespect is your Steward. You would do well to remember that.” Miran’s tone was scathing, his expression impassive.

“I meant only to imply—”

“You meant,” Miran interrupted, “to mock my son, imagining that such disrespect would be tolerated. If the only proof you can summon for your argument is this tactic of distraction and ridicule, then silence yourself else be taken for a fool.”

Arden – and indeed, most of those present – regarded the former High Steward with openmouthed shock. He had not said a single word in support of his youngest son since Arden’s reappearance. That he would begin now was, to say the least, a surprise.

“Forgive me, my Lord Steward,” Edmund said, tone stiff as he addressed Arden.

“Of course,” Arden said, warily watching his father’s expression out of the corner of his eye. “It seems you took my words for an accusation, which I assure you, they were not. I had only hoped you might have an old memory that could serve us in our current predicament. If not, then no matter – but do not presume that my conclusions are erroneous because you do not like their nature.”

“My Lord.” Edmund bowed his head, thought the tension in his frame was clear. “If I heard anything about the Damned One as a child, I do not remember. I hope the court does not think so little of my loyalty as to accuse me of hiding such information for so many years.”

Miran seemed pleased by Edmund’s words. Arden nodded, still reeling from his father’s unexpected defense. “Your loyalty is not up for debate. If all is as you say, then you can tell us naught about the motives of Dramor, or of the demon himself.”

“I’m afraid not, my Lord. If I am to be completely honest, this line of questioning surprises me.”

“And why is that?”

“I would think that any tales of demon-worshipping relatives from my childhood would be less germane to this discussion than Lord Lester’s reports from Indar.”

“Well, Lester? What have you to say to that?” Miran asked.

“Only that I am as surprised as the rest of the council,” Lester replied.

“I find that difficult to believe,” Valory said. “Tell me Lester, how have you explained the political unrest within Dramorian borders these past few years? I believe your last dispatches claimed that they were tax related.”

“Taxation seems to be an unpopular subject no matter where in the world one is, my Lord,” Lester replied.

“Be that as it may, I had my Steward look up records of all of the dispatches you’ve sent back from Indar over the last fifteen years. Arden?”

Arden shuffled his papers. “Fanár 2407 – rebellion within the capital, bread taxes. Ranád 2408 – action taken near the steppe to put down a protest against grain taxes. Ranán 2410 – two bloody disputes in border towns attributed to tea taxes. 2411 – three separate rebellions throughout the heartland because of import taxes—”

“If I were to read that list myself, would I find any military action not attributed to taxes?”

“No, my Lord,” Arden replied.

“The sultan’s taxation policy is aggressive, my Lord,” Lester said. “It has been for many years, and has made him unpopular as a result; especially in farming communities where the burden is greatest. I suspect that much of the money is poorly handled, which makes for an even unhappier populace.”

“So the sultan has continued to pour resources into thwarting tax-related rebellions in lieu of restructuring his policies?” Valory asked. “These skirmishes have _nothing_ to do with the fact that agrarian Dramor is populated almost entirely by worshippers of Arrar, whereas radical demon-worship has overtaken Indar’s ruling classes?”

“If that is the case, my Lord – and I would never accuse you of falsehood – then it is a truth that was well hidden from me by the sultan and his men.”

Valory grit his teeth. “You’ve been our man in Dramor for almost twenty years now, Lord Lester. Am I to believe that the Indarian nobility has managed to pull the wool over your eyes for that entire time?”

“Members of the sultan’s court do not take well to outsiders, my Lord. Although my post was official, it felt akin to espionage at times to learn anything of import.”

Beside them on the dais, Verne shook his head. “He’s lying,” Arden whispered.

“I know,” Valory replied.

“Then pray tell, Lord Lester, do you have _any_ wisdom to share with us about demon-worship and the cults whose radicalism you _were_ aware of?” Miran asked.

“I know nothing of the sort, my Lord; I dared not make a study of such a matter.”

“You are in good company, then, for none that I have asked – even those that _should_ have wisdom to share – dares part with any.” Arden leaned over, scooping the topmost volume off of one of his piles and holding it up for all to see. It was the Book of Zathár. “There is nothing immoral about the study of one’s enemies – even enemies we consider so wholly evil as Zathár. Indeed, I would argue that failure to comprehend the motives of the demon and his worshippers is the true evil, for ignorance will bring about our damnation as assuredly as if we threw our doors open to him in invitation.”

“My Lord cannot say that he has read such a thing,” Lester gasped.

“He can, and he has.” These were the King’s words. “The manner of Steward Arden’s scholarship is not up for debate: he obtained the book from my own library.” The whispers of scandalized councilmembers filled the hall.

“We must remember that books themselves cannot be evil. Zathár’s Book is but a chronicle. It is what men do with the words written therein that creates evil,” the High Priest said, speaking for the first time. A slight smile played across his craggy features. “Do continue, Steward Arden.”

Arden nodded. “We are all aware of the history of the Damned One and his brethren, who once walked the world in plentiful numbers. The Book of the Damned is history written from their perspective, no more. It does us a disservice to forget that Zathár was not ‘the’ demon, but rather, one of many. He may have been their King, but he was far from unique.”

“Is the review of the Scriptures necessary, my Lord?” Lord Alec asked.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if some of you were in need of it,” Arden replied, mouth twisting as he realized how very much he sounded like his father. “What I am driving at is this: our predicament is a matter of perspective. Zathár thinks of his sequestration in very different terms than we do.” He took a breath. “We call Zathár a demon, and yes, that is fitting – but let us not forget that ‘demon’ is a descriptive word of our own creation. In form and power, he is very similar to our Gods.”

“Pure blasphemy,” Edmund muttered, touching his brow.

“Not so,” the High Priest countered. “What makes the Damned One so dangerous a foe is that he _is_ God-like – but with a tainted heart.”

“Yet to say that Zathár does evil for evil’s sake is a simplification, and one that could prove dangerous for us,” Arden amended.

“How so?” Siath asked.

“Think of the men who kill for sport or pleasure. Think of how their actions play out – a blend of opportunism and chaos,” Arden said. “If we give the demon such little credit, we will fail to see the forest for the trees.”

“This you gleaned from the Book?”

“I know you haven’t read it, My Lord—”

“Which is just as well, because it has been _banned_ ,” Lester interjected.

Arden ignored him. “I’m glad, however, that when it was first sent to Armathia as a curiosity, it was shelved rather than burned.”

“Books are banned for a reason, Lord Steward,” Lester argued.

“On that point we agree, Lord Lester,” Arden admitted. “Knowledge used unwisely or untampered with critical thought can be a dangerous thing. Reading the Book, I’ll readily admit that those without knowledge of or faith in the rest of the Eastern Scriptures may come to view the demon in a sympathetic light.”

At the affronted grumbling of the council, the High Priest stepped in. “What my Lord means to say is that worshippers of Zathár will find his Book to be full of claims that justify their actions.”

“Surely that is the fault of the twisted interpretation of extremists,” Edmund put in.

“Such dismissals do us no favors.” Arden shook his head. “This Book is more than the ranting and raving of a lunatic, and refusing to see it for what it’s worth is an act of willful ignorance. Zathár and his followers do not do evil for evil’s sake. They act in order to assert what they believe is the natural order of things. They believe Zathár was wronged by our Gods.”

“Wronged by the Gods?” another councilor interpreted, voice betraying his incredulity. Many of those present voiced their agreement.

“In his eyes, yes,” Arden said. “His subjects were terrible creatures, all, but there can be no argument that they were a far more powerful race than our ancestors. They saw the enslavement of mankind as their natural right, believing us to be weak and servile, useful only for labor and other base pursuits. What did our autonomy matter to them, if they considered us a lower order of being? Do we consider the autonomy of our own beasts of burden? For that is how they saw us.”

“Are you trying to justify the treatment of our ancestors, Lord Arden?” Siath asked.

“No. I am, however, trying to explain _Zathár’s_ justification. If he, as the King of the Damned, perceived matters as such, one might imagine his reaction when the Gods took issue with his treatment of their worshippers. He thought them vain, demanding our freedom so we might pay them greater tribute.”

“Indeed. The Book of the Damned has chapters upon chapters penned in fits of rage and grief, describing the disappearance of the demon’s kin as they were vanquished by Illen and Fángon,” the High Priest said. “Most of his kind did not go to the locker; rather, the Brother and Sister ensured that their very existence was erased.”

“Gentlemen,” Arden continued, “I beg of you – consider for a moment what your thoughts might be if you were the last man left in the Eastern World, and knew who was responsible for your solitude.”

The chamber had fallen silent, council members contemplating the words of their High Priest and Steward.

“It seems that you have found some empathy for Zathár,” Valory remarked.

“No, my Lord,” Arden said. “I cannot empathize with a creature that would enslave a sentient race out of conceit. I can, however, see the logic that governed his actions. Moreover, I would argue that there is utility in knowing the pattern in his thoughts.”

“If there is a pattern, his actions may be predicted,” Siath agreed, finally seeing where Arden was headed with his argument. “Tell us more.”

“My Lord,” Arden acquiesced. “As the High Priest alluded, I suspect that Zathár’s confinement in the locker has to do with his incredible power rather than any mercy on Fángon’s part. Even our Gods found him too strong to destroy completely. At the beginning of this age, they created the locker as a prison for Zathár and mortal creatures with similarly tainted souls. Sequestering the demon was the most they could do – and even that could not have come to pass without the aid of Eramen and his armies.”

“Eramen beheaded the demon.”

“Yes, my Lord. A physical blow alone would hardly slow one with such power, but it stunned him long enough for the Brother and Sister to bear his soul down to the locker. Yet they knew the futility of his imprisonment. It was Fángon who prophesized the Reckoning, telling Eramen that he was not strong enough to sequester the demon forever.”

“And now he has returned – but for what? To recreate the conditions of his last reign? It is impossible. His brethren are gone,” Valory said.

“My point precisely. Zathár has returned to seek revenge. He will want the Gods to suffer the same fate as his fellows,” Arden replied.

“So he comes for us?” Valory asked. After a moment’s thought – spurred on by Arden’s expectant expression – he came to the conclusion his Steward was hinting at. “Zathár will trample our lands out of spite, most likely – our payment for being children of Eramen. But he doesn’t seek to exterminate our people from these shores, does he?”

“No,” Arden sighed. “We will remain, slaves within his dark kingdom. It better suits his ends. Under his thumb, we will be prohibited to worship, to study our own history, to be Oceanic. Within but a few generations, our memory of who and what we are will begin to fade. Exterminating our people would be too easy. Zathár wants to erase our identity.”

“The ultimate revenge,” Valory said. “If our children and our children’s children do not know our history, then our names will be lost forever – gone as though we had never lived.” Valory’s jaw tightened. “More than that: we will be stricken from this world and the world beyond – for if Illen is forgotten and her power wanes, the ship of the East will no longer carry the souls of the worthy to new shores. The undying lands themselves will fade into nothingness.”

“Only then will Zathár consider his victory complete,” Arden agreed, voice hushed. “When we have suffered the same fate as the creatures he counted amongst his family.”

The conclusion was both weighty, a terrible thing to consider: that Zathár was more than a chaotic instrument of battle to be unleashed by Dramor during the Reckoning, but instead a being with his own agency; a being with the motivation and ability to end life in the Eastern World as they knew it. He could take everything from them – everything that made them who they were, that made them Oceanic, would be gone. It was a terrible thing to consider.

“This is what you believe, then?” Siath asked.

“My best guess, my Lord, based on all of the evidence I could find – your visions among them. I don’t claim perfect accuracy, but it is the most coherent narrative I could weave given all that we know, and a far sight more likely than what we had previously believed about the relationship between Zathár and Dramor,” Arden replied.

“How do we stop him?”

“The same way Eramen did, I suppose. We must incapacitate him for long enough that Fángon can drag him back to the locker. We must do to him what he intends to do to us, and stamp out all memory of his reign amongst his followers. Perhaps then he might grow weak enough to succumb to the Gods once and for all,” Arden replied.

“We must best him in battle, then,” Siath said. “One of us must get close enough to strike his head from his shoulders.”

“It worked before, did it not?”

“You would have us draw so near to the demon without even being certain that such a risk would bear fruit?” Edmund questioned.

“Do you have a more workable solution, Duke Edmund?” Arden arched a brow.

“Running towards a being so powerful in such a desperate bid seems hasty, my Lord. Perhaps we might wait until a less . . . suicidal option presents itself.”

“Zathár is already several steps ahead of us. We cannot allow any more of his plans to unfold unchecked,” Arden countered.

“I would avoid rash actions, nevertheless. We would not want to implement a subpar solution without careful consideration, should it bear unintended consequences,” Edmund replied.

“Your caution is understandable, Duke Edmund, but we are running out of time for deliberation.”

“Yes,” Valory added. “We must remember that inaction does not come without its own terrible risks. One might even say that inaction itself is a form of action.”

“Remember that I am not suggesting we march on Arrynmathár,” Arden said. “Eramen defeated Zathár here in Armathia at the dawn of this age.”

“Would it truly be a better solution to lure him to our doorstep?” Siath asked.

“Our men are not equipped for battle in the desert, my Lord,” Edmund spoke up.

“On that point we agree, Duke Edmund,” Arden nodded. “As for the location of our final battle – it must be at our doorstep. Zathár will not join the march until it brings him here, the place of his last defeat. Ithaka, Kilcoran, Anaphe – these were meant to cripple our power base, yes, but Zathár does not want our minor provinces. He wants Armathia.”

The High Priest voiced his agreement. “The Damned One will be after the source that lies at the heart of the city, deep beneath the cathedral.”

“The Illen Stone?” Valory asked.

“It is one of the last tethers between Illen and this world. If he cannot wield its power, he will want it destroyed.”

“If the Stone is the source of such power . . .” Lester ventured.

“No,” the High Priest said, nearly shaking with vehemence. “The Stone is for no one man to possess at will – not without dire consequence. My order has been charged with its protection. I will not permit any to access it and jeopardize our link with Illen. It is her Gift that gives us a fighting chance.”

Arden considered the High Priest’s words, thinking over all he knew about the Stone. He wondered the extent to which the High Priest was telling the whole story to the council. His musings, however, were sidetracked by Alec’s indignant splutter—

“Then what, we sit here on our hands as our lands are razed, waiting for the demon to come knocking on our door in the vain hope to execute some cockamamie scheme that results in his beheading?”

“No,” Verne said. “Our borders extend far beyond the Armathian peninsula, and we must endeavor to defend them. There are foul things afoot in our Borderlands that must be dealt with.”

“These creatures that have been sighted – can we confirm their connection to the Damned One?” Siath’s question was directed towards Arden.

“One of the consequences of Zathár’s return to power during the Reckoning is that Fángon no longer controls the doorway to the locker. As we have discussed, the demon was not the only tainted creature confined to its depths,” Arden said. “The resurgence of creatures of the last age is cited in the Scripture as one of the harbingers of Zathár’s return.”

“I am worried about more than the creatures,” the High Priest admitted. “Since its creation at the beginning of this age, Fángon’s locker has been the recipient of all manner of beings – not the least of which were the souls of the unworthy: thousands upon thousands of them.”

Siath’s jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. “Are you implying that the spirits of mortal men consigned to the locker could somehow contrive to rise against us?”

“It is possible, my Lord. There is some evidence for it, but we cannot be certain. The Reckoning is an event that lacks precedent. I only mention this obvious fact – that the locker houses the souls of evil _men_ as well as foul creatures of old – as something that bears careful consideration.”

“It sounds as though my Lord is suggesting that the disembodied soul of a thousand-year-dead scoundrel could somehow injure our cause,” Edmund scoffed.

“Why do you assume that mortal souls would be disembodied when other creatures so plainly were not?” Arden asked, leafing through the gilt-edged pages of his copy of the Book of Fángon.

“This was something the clergy had never before considered?” Miran asked, drilling the High Priest with his grey gaze.

“No.” The High Priest’s tone was blunt. “The men of my order have made the study of the Eastern Scriptures their life’s work. We have amassed no small amount of knowledge in that regard.  The knowledge we have amassed, however, has often been based upon translation – particularly the texts that had to do with the Damned One. We have always assumed the vague nature of some passages in the Scriptures to be metaphorical in nature. It was not until quite recently that we discovered that they were most likely the result of inconsistencies between the Dramorian and Oceanic tongues.”

“In other words?” Miran continued.

“We have long known that the return of the creatures to our lands and waters was a forerunner of the Reckoning. Another sign was the appearance of Zathár’s ‘dark armies’ upon our borders. In the Book of Fángon we are cautioned that they will follow their Lord from their ‘dark point of origin’ to the Eastern shores, destroying and defiling all that lies in between. We interpreted these passages as prophesy that Dramor would turn traitor to their fellow men at the end of days.”

“Well, they haven’t disappointed,” Valory snorted.

“Yet that interpretation became problematic once I began to read the original Dramorian text,” Arden interjected.

“Is the implication that our Scriptures are a poor translation?” Miran raised a brow.

“No. The implication is that the structure of Oceanic and Dramorian are so vastly different that a perfect translation is impossible to make. Hence the use of metaphor: a metaphor that we did not understand,” Arden said. “The quoted ‘dark point of origin’ does not necessarily refer to Arrynmathár.”

“Had I known the discrepancy, I would have given the Book to the clergy when I first received it,” Siath said, frowning.

“Where did you procure the Book, my Lord?” Arden asked.

“Conrad sent it; one of his aides found it amongst a cache of books in a loyalist’s home. They had wanted to burn it, but I suspect that Conrad might have known something of the political situation in Dramor and thought it useful – a curiosity, as you said before.” He looked over at his Steward with a small smile. “Verne wanted to burn it as well, when we received it.”

“It _is_ the Book of the Damned, my Lord.”

“Which is why I didn’t give it to the clergy. My father’s health had begun to fail, and I hardly wanted accusations of Dramorian sympathy floating about alongside my name when the crown was passed. Perhaps that was selfish of me.” He sighed. “That was three years ago, perhaps four. I had forgotten I possessed it until you spotted it, Lord Arden.”

“Place no blame upon your shoulders, my Lord,” the High Priest assured him. “The upper echelons of the clergy do not speak of our familiarity with the Book of the Damned to outsiders, and for good reason.”

“Besides, knowing what we do now about the sultan’s tendency towards extremism, I doubt any of the diplomats we then housed in the capital would have consented to aiding with translation of the book,” Arden added. “Left up to those of us who learned the language for the sake of diplomacy, there’s no guarantee any discrepancies in translation ever would have been caught.”

“Is that still a concern?” Siath asked. “Duke —”

“I would offer my services, but I am wary of touching the thing. I also worry that my command of Dramorian has weakened with disuse,” Edmund said.

“I am happy to translate what I can,” Lester interjected. “Indeed, I’m unsure why I wasn’t contacted directly when the translation work began.”

“I had not meant to insult you through exclusion, Lord Lester, but I required the aid of one who spoke Dramorian as a mother-tongue,” the High Priest said. “We are fortunate that the Regent’s Lieutenant consented to lend us his services.”

“In other words, all of this conjecture about souls returning from the locker is based upon the translation of a _soldier_?” one of the councilors laughed.

“Is your memory so short that you do not remember the Lieutenant’s role when he first arrived in our court?” Valory snapped. “He was sired by the sultan’s right-hand man; he is of no mean origin.”

“I could not have asked for better qualified help,” the High Priest added. “The Lieutenant clarified much. The assertions that I found striking were that the aforementioned ‘dark armies’ would consist of both men and creatures, and that the phrase ‘dark point of origin’ doesn’t even begin to encapsulate all that the Dramorian text intended.”

“What’s so novel about the Lieutenant’s translation?” Verne wondered.

“We had thought the point of origin would be Arrynmathár, the demon’s ancestral seat. The original text, however, implies both literal and figurative darkness. The Lieutenant likened it to a chasm, and informed me that it was meant as a reference to the locker. Therein lies the basis for my conclusion regarding the souls of the confined: if the point of origin is the locker, then that is from where the foot soldiers of Zathár will come,” the High Priest elaborated.

Verne’s frown deepened. “And you are certain of the accuracy of this interpretation?”

“No,” the High Priest admitted, “but I believe that Steward Arden was onto something when he asked for my help, and for that of the Lieutenant. The words in the Book of the Damned could just as easily refer to the locker as Arrynmathár. If Zathár has built his ‘dark armies’ with occupants of the locker – legions of men, as is described – then the Book refers to another sort of army entirely.”

“An army of the damned,” Arden murmured. It was clear from their reaction that the council found his words distressing.

“I would opt for a less fantastic interpretation, my Lords,” Edmund cautioned. “With the reports from the Borderlands as they are, I tend to think that the demon will march from Arrynmathár with Dramor’s living armies.”

“Or both,” Siath mused. “In my visions I Saw Arrynmathár. The land before its gates was cloven by a great chasm. At the time I was too gripped with terror to think on what that meant – and what it meant that the foul air rising from tis depths was cold in a way that belied its desert location.”

It took even Arden several long moments to process the implications of Siath’s words. His hands stilled on his volume of the Book of Fángon, mind spinning as he ventured, “Could the door to the locker have been thrown open outside the gates of Zathár’s ancient seat, my Lord? Is that what you Saw?”

“I know what I Saw. As for what it means . . .” Siath trailed off.

“I may not be an interpreter of visions, my Lord, but yours is consistent with what we have begun to fear,” the High Priest said. “Zathár may command the loyalty of the Dramorian military, but that is not the dark army so reviled by the Scriptures.”

Arden frowned down at the text beneath his fingertips. “Is that what we must come to expect, then? That we will encounter the warped countenances of all the mortal souls confined to the locker since the very hour of Banishment? There would be scores of them – men and women alike.”

“Gods,” Siath whispered. “Is that what heads our way at this very moment?”

“Not our way, my Lord,” Verne pointed out. “We have every indication that Dramor intends to secure Anaphe. They would not do so without the demon’s approval, and will likely have his aid. They have long coveted it, and will need it as an outpost now that Elona has been retaken.”

“Anaphe was built as a fortress in Armathia’s image. If any city can hold off such creatures, it is Anaphe,” Edmund declared.

“Yet the city is on the verge of collapse without any help from Zathár’s armies,” Siath said. “It will need all of the aid we can spare to have any hope of surviving direct attack.”

“We have no more aid to spare, my Lord – certainly not if Zathár will look to Armathia next,” Verne replied, momentarily laying aside the terrifying notion of an army of the damned in favor of more practical concerns.

“The Lady Fiona is a part of Anaphe’s troubles, my Lord. Her inexperience has bred chaos,” Edmund said.

“The Lady Fiona has acted out of love for Oceana and loyalty to the crown, gentlemen – we cannot fault her for such. That she is untried is true, however, and she has had a difficult time of late,” Siath said. “If we cannot send further aid to Anaphe, we must at least install leadership therein that might better withstand the siege that is sure to come.”

“Perhaps you might go, _Duke_ Edmund,” one of the councilors said, sarcasm thick.

“My nephew Samir is more than capable of leading in my stead,” Edmund replied, ignoring the implication of neglect of his duties.

“Samir is not well-liked in court,” Valory pointed out.

“He is headstrong, yes, but has been groomed for leadership. I had meant to name him my successor,” Edmund replied.

“Nevertheless, Samir would do naught to ease the factious nature of the Anaphean court in this time of need. That is why I intend to send the Regent to our twin city; none can dispute his claim to power who calls himself Oceanic,” Siath declared.

“I daresay the presence of my daughter at his side will ease matters.”

“That is our hope,” Siath nodded.

“You will take men with you then, my Lord?” Lord Alec spoke up.

“Only my own,” Valory said.

“And your Steward?” Lester asked. He failed to hide the curl of his lip as he regarded the man who had upset his claim to the title.

“Lord Steward Arden will not accompany the Regent to Anaphe,” Siath said. The confusion of the council was evident.

“If we are to best the threat that comes for us – a threat that could very well include armies of the nature we have discussed this morning – we cannot be so conceited as to imagine that we will fight alone. We have neglected our neighbors for many generations. We must rectify that,” Verne said.

“Then what, send Steward Arden to Oldred on the off chance that, this time, Saria might grant us aid?” Edmund asked. “They are a cold people, my Lords, uninterested in our plight.”

“I daresay they will be interested in news of Zathár’s return; his triumph would end the Age of Men. Isolated as they are from us, Sarians are still our brethren,” Siath said.

“Yet they have not raised arms alongside us for millennia, my Lord,” a councilor pointed out.

“All the more reason why we must send a man whose connection to the House of Kings is indubitable,” Verne said. “My Lord and I cannot leave Armathia when the possibility of an imminent attack weighs upon us. The Regent and his men must hold Anaphe – that is our immediate priority. It falls upon my brother, then, to sail to Oldred in the name of the King, for all our sakes.”

“Can Saria send men enough to repel the foul things from our borders?” Edmund asked. “If foul things are spilling from the locker as has been claimed, will they not be occupied with the defense of their own lands?”

“Duke Edmund raises a good point. Will the reinforcements we glean from Saria – _if_ we are successful – be enough? And if not, then where must we look to find enough hands to fight in our name?” Arden asked.

Valory nodded, glancing sideways at his Steward. They had planned this moment carefully, as well as the proposal they had drafted to go with it.

“With Dramor already sworn for Zathár, I fail to see what our other options may be. We must make do with what we have,” Verne said.

“Yet thinking thus has us discounting an entire people,” Arden replied.

“What, the Western states? Surely you do not count them amongst our potential allies – not when they have already struck the first blow of this war against our isles,” Verne frowned.

“My Lord cannot mean to suggest that we should forgive the transgressions of the race that set sea-witches upon us,” Edmund added.

“Continued interrogations of the Belenese Commodore have brought new information to light that the council must hear,” Valory said.

“What more is there to know? Their lands were trampled during the Banishment, and as a result their government fell into disarray – a fact for which they have always blamed Oceana. If they would rather bow to the sultan, then let them,” Miran cut in.

“The Westernese resent the sultan and his demands. Their hatred of Dramor runs as deep as their quarrel with us. It is a point we can use to our advantage. As we should, for Zathár has already attempted to use it to his,” Valory replied.

“Has he?” Siath asked. “Do you mean to suggest that the attacks on Illen’s Arm and Elona were not orchestrated by the sultan?”

“Far from it,” Valory confirmed. “If Dramor knows of their campaign, it is only through association with the demon. Zathár has set the stage to play them off against one another. We may be able to twist his feat of manipulation to suit our own purposes.”

“The Westernese will not rise against Dramor,” Miran argued. “Not now.”

“The political tide in the West is turning,” Valory replied.

“For our edification, my Lord, can you clarify your sources? Is it the Belenese Commodore whose word you are taking as fact?” Edmund asked, clearly unimpressed by Valory’s claims.

“The captive Commodore has told us what he knows, yes, and as the brother of the Lord of Belen, his knowledge of current politics is not something a wise man would discount,” Valory said.

“Indeed, we have come to believe that the reason he did not win the title over his brother is because of his politics. Many amongst his people would call him a fanatic,” Arden added. “By the end of our time with him, he would fly into a rage at the very mention of Dramor’s oversight – or of our name for his people’s ancestral lands.”

“The Belenese and Januzians have grown tired of Dramor’s demands and seek to expand their territory to isles already claimed in Oceana’s name,” another councilor said.

“They are fighting for a free West, yes, but our subjugation was not their aim,” Valory replied. “The blame rests at the demon’s feet.”

“We could say the same of Dramor’s actions in Anaphe and the Borderlands, but I am not willing to excuse their encroachments,” Siath argued.

“As we shouldn’t, my Lord,” Arden agreed. “What we have come to realize, however, is that the Westernese who fight in the name of unification have made themselves vulnerable to the temptations of the Damned One. The Commodore was visited by him and promised freedom from the Dramorian yoke in exchange for the attack upon Kilcoran. Zathár has manipulated the Westernese in an attempt to set them at odds with their neighbors. If we refuse to consider an alliance of men, we are playing into his hand.”

“That doesn’t excuse what they have done. They must pay for it.” This was the voice of the Ithakan representative.

“Upon that point we agree, but in the execution we differ. We would cut off our noses to spite our faces by ignoring the possibility of an alliance. They could be our only hope for defending Anaphe against the coming attack,” Arden countered.

“The Western men invade our shores and slaughter our people, and you propose this as repayment?” Edmund asked. “I cannot support any proposal to welcome those men into Anaphe.”

“We must show them the folly of continuing an alliance with the demon. The Commodore is no Dramorian nobleman. Zathár has no intention of honoring their agreement. The Westernese have no idea the hell that will result from their betrayal of their fellow men,” Valory said.

“If we can convince them of Zathár’s true nature – and of his duplicitous intentions – we can secure their allegiance and, more importantly, their aid in the defense of our borders,” Arden added.

“Shall we so easily forget their transgressions?” the Ithakan demanded.

“What better reparation for ills done in the isles than the defense of Anaphe? Dramor and their demon will not expect it. If they turn, it would put a wrench in Dramor’s strategy. It could win the day,” Valory said.

“Do you consider that payment enough for what was done to Ithaka?” Siath asked. “I am surprised, brother. You have always been more draconian in such matters than I.”

“At present I am more interested in Oceana’s welfare than in matters of revenge. Besides, given what we suspect of Zathár’s armies, the defense of Anaphe – and Armathia, when the times comes – will be bloody. Any who fight on our behalf will pay dearly,” Valory said.

“That is so,” Siath agreed, “thus you will have to forgive my inability to see why they would consent to such an alliance.”

“Because we, too, can give them what Zathár has offered,” Valory said. “The same temptation that turned them towards the demon can win them over to our side.”

“Are you suggesting that we fight for the freedom of the men who tortured and murdered so many of our people?”

Arden saw a muscle in Valory’s jaw twitch. He knew that pardoning the Westernese was particularly difficult for him, but the Reckoning was no time to cling to grudges. It was a case of greater and lesser evils, and he was proud to see how readily Valory would swallow his impulse to exact revenge for the sake of the greater good. His willingness to do so, however, did not make the consequences any easier to bear.

“I would like nothing more than to see the hanging of those responsible for all that our isles have endured. I witnessed the violence first hand, and it was a terrible thing.” Valory took a deep breath. “As men, we face much evil of our own making, and in some ways that will always be more disturbing than evil done by the demon and his creatures. I suppose it forces us to question whether such darkness lives within us as well: I will always wonder what lengths I might have gone to for the freedom of my people were the Commodore and my roles reversed. That, for me, is the crux of the matter. The Westernese have been fighting for many long years to call themselves a sovereign nation. Can we call ourselves blameless if we always stood in their way?”

“How can my Lord say such a thing? We were attacked without provocation, in cold blood!” the Ithakan cried.

“We have not been model neighbors to the Westernese,” Arden pointed out. “In a time when we are on trial for the crimes of our forefathers, we mustn’t forget their particulars. Oceana made no objection when Dramor marched into their lands after the Reckoning. We sent no aid, even after it was requested. At one point, we even coveted some of the territories for our own.”

“That was centuries ago,” Verne pointed out.

“Would you forget the names of those who stood by and watched while your enemies razed your lands? The Westernese have a compelling reason to hate us,” Arden replied.

“Be that as it may, they have aligned themselves with the Damned One and have done appalling things in his name. We cannot abide by that,” Verne replied.

“No,” Arden agreed, “we cannot. We can, however, attempt to repair an ancient alliance by winning them from Zathár and recognizing their territories as states within a united nation, rather than colonies of the desert people.”

“All this for mistakes made by Athidry and his brothers?” Siath asked, frowning.

“Because it is the honorable thing to do,” Valory stressed. “But more than that – because it is the deal we will have to make to secure military aid. I cannot hold Anaphe without it.”

“My Lord, Anaphe is strong—”

“Duke Edmund, you have not set foot within our twin city for nigh on twenty years. She is not as battle-ready as you believe her to be. She will hold for a while, perhaps, but lacks the fighting men to repel an army at her doorstep. That is doubly true if the army is as dark as we suspect,” Valory said.

“We cannot spare more men from Armathia,” Siath said.

“Then let me seek them elsewhere,” Valory stressed.

Siath sighed. “Oldred will not respond in time.”

“If at all, for we have little to offer them,” Valory added.

“It will be difficult to drive a bargain with the West. They will not take kindly to our sudden interest in their affairs,” Verne put in.

“They negotiate with swords,” Edmund warned.

“Would it be somehow more advantageous not to try?” Valory demanded. “We will waste no great amount of resources on the endeavor, and the payoff could save Anaphe. That is the duty I have been charged with, and I will not do it by halves.”

“How in Illen’s name will we win their ear? We haven’t had contact with them for centuries, save for the occasional ambitions of Lyrian traders and your own infrequent forays into their lands,” Siath said.

“The tribal council convenes in Zaránd in about two months’ time. We will plead our case there,” Valory said.

“I assume you have pried this out of the Commodore. Zaránd is not easy to get to,” Siath frowned. “The mountain passage will take far more than the time allotted.”

“That is why we must go by river.”

“The river is hardly suited for one of our envoys,” Verne said, “nor are we in a position to spare so many ships.”

“We need but one vessel with a shallow draft and superior maneuverability,” Arden said. “Anything more would be too cumbersome.”

“How are we meant to protect a diplomat in hostile territory with a single small vessel?” Edmund protested.

“We have a Commodore to ransom. As the brother of the Lord of Belen and the architect of their alliance with Zathár, I doubt they would attack the vessel outright,” Valory replied.

“Our men will be outnumbered,” Edmund argued.

“For all of their faults, the Westernese have yet to approach the process of ransom dishonorably. The first reports from Admiral Edgar have been positive in that regard. We can leverage the cost of the Commodore’s ransom to gain a seat in the council at Zaránd. It will allow us to speak with all five tribes at once,” Valory said.

“It may still prove a risky proposition,” Siath said.

“Yet we risk far more by not acting at all,” Valory countered.

“My Lords, this is madness. Who could we possibly send to Zaránd? We have no diplomats well-versed in their ways,” Edmund pointed out.

“We would have to provide translators. There are plenty of scholars who can speak and read their dialects,” a councilor said.

“I’m sure those xenophobic savages would find our battalion of academics very amusing, my Lords. It is charitable of us to provide them with such entertainment.”

“It’s rare that Edmund speaks sense, my Lords; we’d best heed it,” Lord Alec said. “From my army days—”

“Which you spent carousing,” Lester muttered.

“I was stationed on the mountain border,” Alec snapped.

“For a season,” Lester rolled his eyes.

“That’s enough, _ladies_ ,” Miran sneered. “However unimpressive Lord Alec’s military record might be, he nevertheless has experience with the Western people that most of us lack.”

“As I was saying,” Alec nodded, puffed up with righteous indignation, “Edmund has a point. The Westernese are a hardy sort, and all of their leaders are warriors in their own right. The few I met had little respect for King Adrianth as a result, Illen bless his soul.”

“What are you implying, Lord Alec? That any diplomatic gesture would be doomed to failure because the translators from the academy cannot wield a broadsword with the same alacrity as a pen?” Verne asked.

“I can see the case for that,” Arden said. “The Commodore’s rather grudging respect for the Regent comes from his belief that my Lord is a worthy adversary. I wonder what his countrymen would say if we sent a panel of politicians and academics to plead our case.”

“Do you think it would cause offense?” Siath asked.

“It might prove counterproductive,” Arden allowed.

“We are wasting our time here, gentlemen. All we have to offer the territories is contemptible to them: scholars without medals, or soldiers without connection to the crown,” Edmund argued.

“The Regent has traveled in the West,” a councilor pointed out.

“That is true, and I would be fit for such a journey were I not needed in Anaphe. My Steward, on the other hand, meets the criteria as well,” Valory said.

“My brother is needed to lead the envoy to Oldred,” Verne shook his head.

“While Lord Arden is by far the best candidate for the envoy to Saria, I contend that he is the _only_ candidate for an equally important mission to the West,” Valory replied.

“I do not wish to shirk my assigned duty, my Lords, but I agree that I am best used in Zaránd. I could even procure my own vessel for the journey, sparing Admiral Francis the need of finding an escort,” Arden added.

“My Lord speaks Westernese?” Lord Alec’s voice lifted in surprise.

“All five dialects, to a greater or lesser extent. My base knowledge of their customs is robust as well, although I assure you, I would also consult with the scholars at the academy before departure.”

“Moreover, Lord Arden was an instrumental part of the conflict in the isles. Believe you me, his countenance will be recognized by men already ransomed. They will know that he has the authority to speak on behalf of the King,” Valory said.

Siath appeared wary, yet intrigued by the proposal. “I do not doubt that Lord Steward Arden is fit for this task. I only wonder whether taking him off of the Sarian mission and sending him West will help or hinder our cause. If negotiations in Saria fail because of our choice of diplomat and the Western tribes refuse our offer . . .” he trailed off.

“My Lord hopes we would not be wasting our best diplomat on a mission bound for failure.” Verne completed the King’s thought, glancing over at his brother. Arden appeared humbled by the compliment.

“There is an element of risk to this proposal, yes,” Valory admitted.

“Far too great of one, my Lords. I must caution you against gambling upon the tribes,” Edmund pressed. A few of his supporters voiced their agreement aloud.

“Then what, we simply throw up our hands and wait for Zathár to deal a crippling blow to our twin city? Let me make this clear: without aid, Anaphe will fall within the space of a season,” Valory thundered, slapping his palm against the table in frustration.

Several councilors spoke at once in reply, each talking over the other. The commotion, however, came to an abrupt halt as the King stiffened in his chair, a tiny gasp of breath passing his lips. Valory needed only to see the unfocused, faraway look in his brother’s eyes to know that his words had triggered a vision. He, along with the rest of those assembled, watched the King receive the vision with no small amount of trepidation: it was the first true use of his enchantment since his entrapment by the Sea-Witch King.

Back ramrod straight, Siath remained frozen in his chair. Only his eyes moved, unfocused though they were, flicking back and forth almost as though he was reading. Arden found himself holding his breath, both concerned for the King and fascinated by the first true vision he had ever witnessed another receive. He reached out a hand, the backs of his fingers brushing against Valory’s elbow in a show of comfort.

The vision itself was short for all of its intensity. After a mere minute Siath’s shoulders began to relax. His eyes sharpened and focused once more as he glanced around the hall, reminding himself of his surroundings. He blinked, heavy-lidded. A long sigh escaped his lips as he slumped back in his chair, supporting his head with a hand.

Valory was on his feet before he even realized what he was doing, crossing the dais to kneel before his brother and offer his arm. Siath regarded him with a tired smile. “Don’t trouble yourself, brother.”

“Siath.”

It was the first time Valory had used his brother’s given name in public since the coronation. In other circumstances others might have taken his liberty for disrespect. Now, however, there was no mistaking his meaning.

Giving in, Siath took Valory’s proffered arm. The council watched as the Regent shouldered his brother’s burden, head bowing as the brunt of the exhaustion from Siath’s brief but intense use of his enchantment barreled into him. After a few long moments Siath pulled away, appearing worn but alert. “Thank you.”

Valory stood with a slight stagger. “I am happy to serve,” he murmured, ignoring the concerned look that Arden leveled at him as he dropped back into his chair. “What did you See, my Lord?”

Siath shook his head. “I can tell you what I Saw, but not what it means.”

“You Saw Anaphe.”

“I did, although I couldn’t tell you whether it was a vision from the distant past or potential future.”

Edmund appeared pleased by this. “Then we have been reminded of Anaphe’s strength, despite the misgivings of some of those present.”

“To the contrary,” Siath said, “I cannot say for certain what I was shown, but I can say that Illen rarely dispenses idle information – not with such terrible vividness. Anaphe has fallen before, and is in danger of falling once more.”

“Did you see aught of the armies? Banners? Anything?” Valory pressed.

“No, nothing that could have placed the era. In my vision I was shipboard, watching Anaphe burn. Other vessels were foundering in the harbor, still more had been broken upon the shoals and razed to the waterline. I could hear voices but not words. They spoke Oceanic, but I did not recognize the speakers,” Siath replied.

Valory’s deep sigh spoke of his age-old frustration with the vague nature of visions. “At the very least, one could say that Illen is compelling us to act.”

“And act we shall. I would like to see where the council falls on the matter of securing aid for Anaphe,” Siath said.

Verne spoke up. “Gentlemen, a show of hands: all in favor of sending an envoy – most likely Steward Arden – to the West.” The council was deeply divided on the matter, enough so that Verne had to count hands to determine which side held the majority. A quick tally revealed that the council narrowly supported the mission to the Western territories. Edmund and his followers were amongst the sternest of the dissenters. “Majority is in favor, then. A show of hands regarding the aforementioned mission to Saria,” he continued.

“We had best discuss this further, my Lords; it will be a difficult passage to Oldred at this time of year,” one of the councilors cautioned.

“That has been taken into account. We have little choice in the matter, however. I doubt Zathár would be so kind as to grant us a reprieve until the weather is better for recruiting Saria’s aid,” Miran replied. “Yay or nay, gentlemen?”

The council, though still hesitant, showed far greater support for the proposed alliance with Saria. “A clear majority in favor, then,” Verne said. “What more needs resolution?”

“I would like to know more about the armies we spoke of today, my Lords,” a councilor proposed.

“Is further study of the Book necessary?” Verne turned to the High Priest.

“It would be prudent. We gleaned as much as we could with the deadline we were given, but we would not be remiss in rededicating efforts to its interpretation. I do not, however, believe that action should be stalled in the interim,” the High Priest replied.

“All in favor of continued study of the book?” Verne asked. After some clear hesitation even Edmund put his hand up, making the vote unanimous. “The study will continue. We will expect a progress report in a week’s time.”

“Consider it done,” the High Priest said.

“Very well. My Lord, the floor is yours.” Verne turned to Siath.

“Do you stand with or against the council?” Siath asked him.

Verne took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I think that Saria is most likely to give us aid, but the Regent is right when he says that it will not reach Anaphe in time. I am loath to take my brother off of the mission to Oldred, but I see no other option. I will caution you, my Lord, to be very exacting in filling his place in the envoy to Saria. Otherwise I will echo the majority vote of the council.”

Siath nodded. “And you, brother?”

“I have nothing to add,” Valory said. “You know where I stand.”

“Very well. Then _Windjammer_ will be commissioned for a diplomatic mission to Zaránd, to leave in two weeks’ time as part of the Regent’s military escort to Anaphe. We will reconvene tomorrow on the matter of the mission to Oldred,” Siath declared.

Edmund, though furious with the decision, knew better than to speak out against his King. “I hope the Western men perform to your expectations, my Lord.”

“As do I, Duke Edmund. Anaphe is at stake.”

“Yes, and pray tell, have we begun to debate what needs to be done within the city and its council once the Regent arrives? I have a number of suggestions that might help our cause,” Edmund said.

“I take the safety of the city – and of your daughter, who will stand at my side – quite seriously, I assure you,” Valory said. “With that in mind, however, let us leave talk of specifics for the afternoon. The morning has been long, and the King must be in need of respite.” That Valory looked as worn as his brother went without saying.

“I’m afraid my brother is correct, although I daresay we could all use a hearty meal. We will reconvene at two bells.”

The tap of Verne’s staff announced the end of the session. As the councilors began talking amongst themselves, shuffling out of the hall in twos and threes, Lord Alec and several of his followers approached Valory’s seat. “I hear that the date has been set within the week, my Lord Regent,” he said with a brief bow. “Please accept my congratulations on your upcoming nuptials.”

“Accepted, Lord Alec. I hope you will see fit to attend,” Valory said, attempting to keep the sound of utter resignation out of his voice.

“Of course, my Lord.” Alec bowed a second time, his men following suit before the moved to exit the hall.

Watching them go, Arden murmured, “How many days is it now?”

Valory shook his head. “Let’s not think on such things.” His voice was hoarse. “We have had a great victory today.”

“We have,” Arden agreed, though his tone was flat. He saw Valory’s eyes darken.

Valory’s reply was delayed by Verne’s appearance next to one of Arden’s piles of books. “My Lord if you intend to do something about Lord Lester I suggest you do so immediately, else I will have him interrogated myself.” At the far end of the hall, the last of the councilors shuffled out to the corridor.

“You knew his words for falsehood.”

“Aside from the extent to which his story stretched the bounds of credulity, yes – I knew that he was withholding something from us. As I am not a telepath, I could not tell you what your why,” Verne replied.

Valory tapped his fingers upon Arden’s stack of papers. “I’d prefer to question him myself. We must keep this quiet.”

“Falsifying dispatches for Dramor’s sake is treason, Val,” Siath said. “He’ll have to stand trial for it.”

“Is he a double agent?” Valory wondered. “A spy? A Dramorian loyalist? If so, is he working alone, or does he have allies within Armathia?”

“They’ll disappear the moment we collar him,” Miran said.

“Then what do you propose?” Siath asked.

“We could have him followed.” This was Persephone’s suggestion, made from her position at the far end of the dais. “His actions over the coming weeks will either exonerate or damn him.”

“Or permit him to make more mischief,” Verne shook his head.

“Which, supposing he isn’t working alone, would be precisely what his allies would get up to in his absence – only they would go to ground, and we would have an even slimmer chance of discovering their names and motives.”

“Then what?” Verne asked.

Valory rapped his knuckles against the table. “Send word to the fort that I require Lieutenant Imran’s presence.”

“What are you going to do?” Arden asked.

“We’ll put the fear of Fángon into him, then see who he runs to once we’re through,” Valory replied. He glanced at his brother. “If he confesses to anything I’ll have to send him to you.”

“And what should I do, if not arrest him?”

“Reparations?” Arden suggested. “Pardon him on account of years of loyal service to the crown, but require that he fix whatever damage he admits to having done.”

Siath’s jaw tightened. “Would he not be suspicious, getting off so easy?”

“I suppose that depends on the severity of the crime he has committed. This is all hypothetical, however. Perhaps he won’t talk at all,” Valory said. “I’ll send word when I’m through with him to let you know what to expect.”

“Verne?” Siath asked, turning to his Steward.

“This seems a more productive plan than what we had before discussed, my Lord.”

“Very well. Do what you will, Val. Anything short of a confession of loyalty to the sultan and I’ll play this game – but high treason must be punished,” Siath said.

“Noted. Arden?”

“My Lord?”

“We’ve some planning to do.”

.

Arden entered the room to Valory’s right with Imran a step behind. If Lester was surprised to see the Regent appear in his study during his lunch hour he didn’t let it show; he stood as they entered the room and gestured to a number of chair arranged around his desk for such meetings.

“My Lord Regent, Steward Arden,” he said, lip curling at Arden’s title, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“I wished to follow up on some things we discussed during this morning’s council,” Valory said, selecting a seat. Arden sat beside him; Lester took the chair at his desk. “You know my Lieutenant, Imran bar Arrar, do you not?”

“I’m not sure we’ve been introduced,” Lester said, offering a curt bow in Imran’s direction.

“My Lord.” Imran inclined his head.

“As this is our lunch hour, I thought I would get straight to the heart of my reason for being here,” Valory said, stretching his legs out before him and crossing them at the ankles. “This morning you expressed how surprised you were to learn that Indar’s rulers have long since been at the heart of a radical turn in Dramorian politics – surprise that I can’t fathom considering the length of your service.”

Lester wore the blank face of a lifetime diplomat, and showed no outward reaction to Valory’s words. “So you mentioned before, my Lord. I’m afraid that I was unaware that demon-worship had any bearing on the sultan’s policies. Such matters were discussed out of earshot from foreigners.”

“And not a single member of the sultan’s court slipped – not even after imbibing drink – over the course of your two decades of service?” Valory arched a brow.

“I was not trusted, my Lord, as I said.”

“You will find that to be the case even now,” Valory replied. “I find it hard to believe your words, though whether you’re lying outright or lying by omission I can’t yet say.”

“My Lord—” Lester protested, startled by the boldness of the Regent’s accusation.

Valory leaned forward in his chair. “We are at war. Your diplomatic duty to Dramor has been suspended. It is a mistake to continue to withhold information about Zathár’s connections in Indar.”

Lester spread his hands, smoothing his features into an expression Arden was now accustomed to seeing on members of the Armathian council. “I have no such information, my Lord. You must forgive me for not being able to uncover more—”

Valory slammed his fist into Lester’s desk, rattling its contents as well as Lester’s composure. He rose to his feet, voice hitting its bottom register as he spoke. “You are no one’s fool, Lester. Don’t insult my House by insinuating that my father would have sent a half-blind dolt to Indar.”

It took only a short moment for Lester to regain his composure. “That was not my intention, my Lord, I assure you. I only meant to express the depth of my sincerity in wishing that I could have done more.”

Valory ground his teeth, turning towards Imran who had remained beside the door. At his nod Imran was across the room in a flash, pulling Lester out of his chair be the collar. Before Lester had time to splutter a protest Imran had him by the scruff of his neck, one arm twisted behind his back and fingers bent at a painful angle. Arden hid his grimace. Such methods were necessary, perhaps, but still unpleasant to watch.

“My Lord,” Lester winced, trying to twist from Imran’s grasp, “tell your man to unhand me this instant—”

“He acts upon my orders. You will tell me what you’re hiding or my Lieutenant will break all of the bones in your hand, one at a time. I know you’ve seen this done in Indarian court; it’s common practice, is it not? It would do you well to remember, however, that this time you aren’t standing before a politician. I am not the sort of man who will play games of intrigue.”

“I have—” Lester cringed as Imran put more pressure on his hand. “I don’t know—”

Valory leaned in. “Tell me about the sultan’s high councilor. I know you had dealings with him. Did he worship Zathár?”

“Lord Garo? Not to my knowledge,” Lester said, red-faced with strain.

Imran pressed forward, earning a gasp of pain from Lester’s lips. “You play at not recognizing me,” he hissed, “but I do not know why. Do you not remember me? I am Garo’s third son.” A tremor ran through Lester’s frame. “My father’s intentions have never been subtle. You know what kind of a man he is. Cease your falsehoods.”

“A confession will result in more favorable treatment when you’re made to answer for your actions before the King,” Valory reminded him.

“And if he does not confess?” Imran asked.

“Well Lieutenant, I figure I’ll let you decide – since it’s your family history that Lord Lester is so eager to misrepresent.”

Lester shut his eyes for a long moment, letting out a quiet grunt as Imran hitched his arm further up behind his back. “Alright,” he caved. “Have your man unhand me and I’ll tell you my tale.”

Valory nodded. Imran withdrew. Lester sunk back down into his seat, massaging his hand.

“Speak.”

Lester met Valory’s stare, face wearing his guarded mask once more. “Your Lieutenant is correct, my Lord. I know Garo and his sons, and know their predilections well.”

“And yet you made no mention of such matters in your dispatches.”

“I know you suspect me of Dramorian loyalism, my Lord – I would do the same if I were in your position. I assure you, however, that I have no love lost for Indar. Only . . .” he trailed off with a sigh. “Garo is a powerful man with wealth to rival his political connections. My first years as emissary were fraught. The Lieutenant might remember that I wasn’t a popular man.”

“You are Oceanic,” Imran shrugged.

“Garo promised me protection in the Indarian court if I did him the favor of excluding mention of his religious affiliation – and that of the majority of the court – in my dispatches. You must understand, my Lord, that I didn’t comprehend the full significance of his radicalism at the time. Indeed, in the beginning it seemed to me that much of the unrest in Dramor’s provinces was due to poor oversight. With time I came to see things as they were, but—”

“It was too late?” Valory supplied with a wry twist to his lips. “Or was the compensation you received too agreeable to give up?”

Lester shifted in his seat. “There was some compensation—”

“How much?”

“My Lord—”

“ _How. Much._ ”

Lester flinched as Imran took a step back in his direction. “A thousand sandstones each season, my Lord.”

Arden did the math in his head. “That’s about eight thousand Royals per year,” he murmured.

Valory let out a hum of agreement. “I could see you hung for that, and your family stripped of all land and titles.”

“My Lord, _please_ —”

“How long has this been going on?”

Lester let out a pained sigh. “Thirteen years, my Lord.”

“Thirteen?”

Lester cast his eyes down and to the side. “Thirteen only. It took me some time to figure out what was going on in court, and that’s the Gods’ honest truth. For a while afterward I was too afraid to say anything, knowing that I was being watched. And then . . .”

“And then you decided that treason was worth its weight in gold,” Valory spat.

“My Lord, Oceana has always been in my heart—” From behind his chair, Imran let out a derisive snort.

“What more do you know?”

“My Lord?”

“I told you not to play with me, Lester. I plan on wringing every last drop of information from you, however I have to do it.”

Lester pressed his lips together, shrinking further into his chair. “Then I’m afraid that I will suffer for naught, for I know little else. The sultan’s radicalism has spread through the desert like a windstorm. Garo’s sons – your Lieutenant aside – and many of their cohort disappeared for Arrynmathár some years past. News from them was discussed behind locked doors that I could not access. I knew that something was afoot in Zathár’s ancestral seat, but I knew not what it was; I assumed that it was political in nature and figured that I would hear about it when the time came.”

“It never occurred to you that this information could be vital to Oceanic security?”

“My Lord if I had _any_ inkling that the sultan’s reach had extended past our border I would have made for Armathia immediately.”

Arden stepped in just as Valory opened his mouth to argue. “Very well, Lord Lester,” he said, casting a warning glance in Valory’s direction. “Is there any other information that you had previously discounted as irrelevant that you now believe could help our cause?”

Lester shook his head, eyes shifting away. “I’m sorry my Lords – truly, I am – but the sultan and his men play their cards close.”

Arden nudged Valory’s ribs as he stood to stand at beside him at the desk. “Be that as it may, withholding information from the crown is a weighty matter. You know that the relevance of such facts were not for you to decide.”

Lester’s jaw tightened. “I know that, my Lord.”

Valory left his side, beckoning Imran towards the door where their heads bent together in whispered conversation. After a few words were exchanged, Imran departed.

“Yet you made that decision anyway. Whether out of avarice or fear for your safety, such actions remain treasonous.”

Lester’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Yes, my Lord.”

“There’s something to be said for an offered confession, however. The Regent and I will make our recommendations, of course, but the matter of your punishment will be for the King to decide.”

“That is just, my Lord.”

Valory made a show of glancing out the window, regarding the angle of the sun before turning back into the room. “Come then, Lester. An audience with my brother awaits.”

“He sent you to speak with me,” Lester realized.

“An opportunity to come clean in good faith,” Arden nodded. “It would be a mistake to use this as an attempt at further subterfuge, or even, escape.”

“No, my Lord,” Lester said, resolute. He stood, walking with Arden to the doorway, and allowed Imran to place a hand back upon his collar. “I will face whatever punishment my Lord the King sees fit to mete out for my crimes.”

.

“One hundred and three thousand, eight hundred, sixty-two Royals,” Verne said as the door swung shut behind Lester’s retreating form.

“Fifty thousand of which he has consented to pay back to the crown upfront,” Siath added. “That’s no small figure, especially in wartime.”

“Do we believe him?” Arden asked.

“What, that his disloyalty goes no further than bribery? We may not have direct evidence for more, but I’ve no intention of trusting his motives from now on,” Valory replied.

“His confession brought the Belenese Commodore’s words before Illen’s Arm to mind. The Commodore used a partial truth to obfuscate his shadier dealings,” Arden said. “Lester may have hoped that admitting to taking money from Garo could be seen as a lesser crime than whatever else he has committed or planned to commit.”

“He still seemed to expect that he would be hung for this much,” Verne pointed out.

“He was very gracious when he realized that we were willing to give him a chance to clear his name,” Persephone said.

“Again, is that because this was the extent of his crime, or because he’s attempting to misdirect us?” Arden asked.

“I’ll put some of our guardsmen on the case,” Siath said. “We’ll have him followed and have his dispatches monitored. I wish we could remove him from the council, but that would defeat the purpose of this whole exercise.”

“If he is part of a greater plot, we must feed him enough information that he weighs the risk in favor of contacting his allies,” Miran agreed.

“And if not, then we’ve yet another councilor sitting within the chamber whose motives we can chalk up to self-interest,” Valory completed.

Siath let out a long sigh. “I hope this doesn’t turn around on us in the end. For now, however, I think we’ve done enough work. Let’s adjourn for our meal, else we’ll all be short-tempered in this afternoon’s council.”

Arden’s stomach rumbled as if on cue. “Should I have Agatha set another place at the table this afternoon?” Verne asked, turning his way.

Valory beat Arden to the answer. “We have some things to discuss regarding both the development with Lester and the assignment to the West,” he said.

This was a lie: nothing was so pressing that it couldn’t be left for later. Arden wondered whether or not the unusual amount time they spent together – always under the guise of work – was becoming obvious to those close to them. Of late, their tendency to gravitate towards one another had grown more pronounced; particularly as the date of the wedding drew nearer. If Verne had noticed the correlation, he said nothing.

“Tea, then?” Verne offered.

“Of course,” Arden agreed.

Verne nodded, executing a smart bow towards Valory as they made to leave Siath’s sitting room. After pleasantries were exchanged and the door shut behind them, Valory leaned towards Arden.

“Is it selfish of me to monopolize your time as I do?” he asked.

“If I said ‘yes’, would it matter?” Arden teased, shuffling through the sheaf of papers he’d taken with him from the council hall.

“You won’t be rid of me so easily.”

Arden’s smile faltered, his thoughts inevitably circling back to the upcoming wedding.

Valory caught the expression, hand dropping to catch one of Arden’s. “Even then,” he said, the pad of his thumb bumping over Arden’s knuckles. “You’ll find that I’m stubborn.” Arden snorted. “I daresay you’ll not be rid of me at all.”

Arden let out a huff of breath, squeezing Valory’s hand once in return before beginning the walk towards the tower suite. “The day will come soon enough. Let’s not speak of it anymore.”

“Agreed,” Valory answered. “To the tower, then. Let’s see if I can’t make you forget about those papers for a while.”

Arden looked up from his sheaf with a wicked smile. “Shall we bet on it?”

Valory answered Arden’s smile with one of his own. “Of course.” He leered at Arden as they set a course for the tower. “What’s your wager?”


	4. Chapter 4

_The Season of Peace  
Erár the 10; 2422_

“Your pacing is doing my head in.”

Valory pulled up short, pausing mid-stride in a patch of soft, colored light that filtered through one of the cathedral’s many stained glass windows. The light cast multi-hued patterns on his white silken tunic. Arden swallowed. The Regent cut a handsome figure in formalwear.

For the fifth time since their arrival in the antechamber off the altar, Valory ran his hands through his hair with agitation, pulling another few strands loose of the queue at his nape. “You know how I am at times like this.” His voice was low, rough, but had a helpless quality to it that made Arden want to flinch.

Arden clenched his teeth, trying to hold himself steady. He had to act the part of a Steward and support his Regent – even if he felt as though the ground was crumbling away beneath his own feet. “Come here,” he said, far calmer than he felt, “you look a mess.”

Obediently, Valory moved to stand before him. Arden reached up to tug at the leather thong at the base of Valory’s skull, freeing the thick hair to fall about his shoulders. Valory shut his eyes, letting out a silent sigh as Arden combed his hair away from his forehead, leaning into the touch. Arden pulled the unruly strands back into a neat queue once more, fingertips lingering on the exposed skin just above Valory’s high collar. He traced the edge where the stiff gilt embroidery of the King’s insignia met honey-dark skin, following the line of the collar around Valory’s neck to rub against the stubble over his pulse point. He relished in the gentle throb that beat time beneath his fingers. The moment was quiet, intimate, punctuated by Valory’s near-whisper—

“What would I do without you?”

Arden pressed his lips together, fighting for control over his voice as his fingertips twitched against Valory’s throat. “Happily, you’ll never need to find out.”

Valory’s eyes opened, bright and full of such intensity that Arden could hardly begin to guess at the thoughts and feelings behind them. A hand came up to rest on his chest, fingers splayed out over the swirl of embroidery that climbed outwards from his heart to cover his left shoulder. This was their first moment of quiet together since early the morning, when the day’s preparations had begun.

The moment was over soon enough; the pat of feet against flagstones signaled the approach of the young priest who had left them mere minutes earlier, ostensibly to check on the ceremony’s progress. Valory dropped his hand and turned away, nervously adjusting his collar, his scabbard, his studded belt. His sandals creaked as he began pacing once more. Arden had been informed some time earlier that Valory disliked formal footwear, and so the leather of his only pair was still as stiff as the day they had come from the cobbler. He could just see them peeking out from beneath the hem of Valory’s finely-tailored trousers.

The young priest poked his head inside the chamber just as Valory began fussing with his cuffs. “The High Priest is ready for you, my Lords.”

“Very well,” Valory said, looking up from his hands to glance at Arden. The regret was written plainly across his features. “Shall we?”

Arden’s heart thudded as he followed Valory through the archway and out into the cathedral. To their left was the long, vaulted main chamber, lined with rows and rows of pews. To their right the High Priest stood with his back to Illen’s altar. In time with their entrance, the assembly began a slow, achingly beautiful hymn – the bridegroom’s melody. Arden tried not to make eye contact with anyone in the first pew, filled as it was with friends and family. He doubted he would be able to hide the choking feeling that rose up in his breast from one as Empathetic as Verne. He turned away from his brother’s searching stare and Siath’s gentle frown to watch Valory reach his mark – set just before the High Priest – and turn.

They stopped in the center point between the three altars, facing one another, Valory with his back angled to the doorway from which his bride would soon emerge. Arden found himself mouthing the words of the hymn for the sake of appearances, but was unable to force sound out of his throat. He watched as Valory joined the melody, eyes fixed on Fángon’s altar behind Arden’s head.

The key changed as one hymn segued into another – the cue for the entry of the bride. Valory’s back stiffened in time with the murmurs and sighs that came from the crowd as Sybina and Edmund appeared in the archway behind Ranael’s altar. Although he wouldn’t be permitted to turn and see her until the rites were read, he could feel the presence of her enchantment the moment she entered the room.

Arden watched Sybina’s slow approach, though she seemed unaware of his gaze, so fixed was her attention upon Valory’s back. A hopeful smile lit up her face. Her hair was pulled up into an elaborate style, small white flowers twined into each twist and braid. Her gown was cut from deep red silk – the color of Anaphe’s ruling houses. She wore the better part of her dowry; her neck and wrists dripped with finery worthy of a future Princess. Arden swallowed. She was stunning.

Sybina stopped in front of the High Priest as well, turning to stand back-to-back with Valory. The sweet notes of the bride’s hymn came to a close, casting the vaulted chamber of the cathedral into a deep silence. Arden vacillated between wanting to meet Valory’s eyes and avoid eye contact at all costs. When he agreed to stand as Valory’s second he had known how difficult it would be, yet that nevertheless left him unprepared for the reality of standing at the altar with him as he was sworn to another. As if aware of Arden’s swirling thoughts, Valory kept his eyes trained on the stonework of Fángon’s altar, a severe set to his dark brow.

The High Priest spoke. “Before us stand two children of Illen, seeking to cleave to one another for all of their days. They stand here upon this altar today to seek her blessing.”

Two young priests appeared at Arden and Edmund’s elbows, simple crowns woven of white flowers in each of their hands. Arden took the proffered crown with a numb smile, registering on some level the sweet fragrance that drifted up from the delicate blossoms. Valory cast his eyes downward as he bent before him, allowing the crown to be set upon his head. Arden straightened it with care, unable to resist the temptation to allow the pad of his thumb to drag across the silvered scar that kissed Valory’s brow. He felt rather than heard the hitch in Valory’s breath, and smothered the urge to slide his palms down to cup Valory’s jaw.

He dropped his hands after a brief hesitation, leaving the crown of flowers seated upon Valory’s head. Valory’s eyes remained downcast, face expressionless. The flowers leant him such a benign appearance that Arden might have laughed were the circumstances different. As it was, he could only force what he hoped was some approximation of a smile onto his face. Deception had never been a talent of his. He was afraid the entire congregation could see the strain in his features.

The High Priest continued with the ceremony, though the words barely registered in Arden’s mind. “At the beginning of an age, Eramen’s first crown was one of flowers, and so was that of his beloved Queen . . .”

It had been many years since Arden had attended a wedding, let alone one of Armathian nobility. The words were familiar for all of his inability to remember the last time he had heard them spoken. He remembered sitting in one of the pews as a young man, listening to the rites and imagining what Eramen’s own service must have looked like, held in a fledgling city that had so recently seen the ravages of war.

“. . . for the bond forged upon this altar is one that does not derive its strength from the trappings of wealth, nor the symbols of status. The bond forged upon this altar runs deeper than our vestments, our titles, our names . . .”

Watching these ceremonies, Arden had always wondered what it must have been like for Drand, who watched his Lord and lover give himself to another in front of the people of their newly-united kingdom. He let out a shaky breath. Understanding Drand’s predicament no longer required an exercise in empathy. He now knew the painful, molten dread that Drand must have felt – the roiling in his gut, the knots in his throat, the acrid sting behind his eyes.

“. . . this bond is one of the highest loyalty and devotion, for should you choose on this day to twine your lives together, none may stand between you. You shall twine together as do tree and vine, until time dissolves the borders that separate you, and you finish your days as one . . .”

Valory’s eyes remained downcast. Arden fought the temptation to draw his gaze. He didn’t know whether he could keep his composure under Valory’s piercing stare as the High Priest spoke of the nature of devotion – words that fit flush to those who stood upon the altar that day, though perhaps not in the way the letter intended.

“And twined you will remain, through times war-like and peaceful, through prosperity and privation, through sickness and health . . .”

Arden wondered what the bards of future generations would sing when they penned verses about Valory. _If there even are future generations_. The grim thought came unbidden.

Arden wondered whether they would sing of Regent Valory’s devotion for his young, beautiful wife. He wondered whether the verses celebrating the timeless love shared by Eramen and his Queen were no more than fanciful fictions, inspired by some poet’s incomplete picture of a scene that must have looked very much like this one. For Eramen’s sake, he hoped not.

“With time each will draw the other into their heart of hearts and love will run wide and deep – as wild as Ranael’s domain, as constant as his tides . . .”

The King and his Regent both walked in Eramen’s likeness. Portraits of the first King had only been painted late in his life, but the similarities were unmistakable. Arden couldn’t say whether it was imagination or Sight that made his core vibrate with such a feeling of _recognition_ , but on some level he felt as though they were acting out a thousand-year-old story. Like Drand, he would stand by his Lord’s side, watching as he offered himself up in the name of duty.

“. . . for it is not merely a home and a hearth that you will share. You will give of your mind, of your spirit, of your body. You will share in the pleasures of the mortal world with your partner. You will relish in them. Together you will sink into the essence of life. You will taste all that is sweet . . .”

Those words tempted Valory’s resolve. His eyes flicked up to meet Arden’s. The force of it – enchantment and all – was nearly percussive, hitting Arden hard behind his ribs. The breath left his body in a silent gasp. He would listen as the High Priest spoke of the joining of bodies and souls. He would listen as Sybina was showered with words that were his. He would step aside and participate in the sham, when he wanted nothing more than to tear the flowers from Valory’s hair.

“. . . be free with your affections. Nourish your partner. Bind your mind, your spirit, your body to your partner. . .”

Valory’s stare drilled into him, the scant few feet of space between them vibrating with tension.

“Learn one another, deeply and completely, and you will have a union that Illen will forever bless.”

The candles upon Illen’s altar flickered. Valory’s jaw clenched. Arden heard the words that swam behind Valory’s eyes as though they had been spoken aloud. _This is for you._

Arden fought the urge to reach for him, to look away, to scream. He let a gentle breeze comb through Valory’s hair. A single white petal drifted to the floor. Valory’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, recognizing the movement of air for the caress that it was.

“Be blessed, Valory bar Adrianth and Sybina bar Edmund, and come to enter this union.”

Valory raised his fingertips to his forehead in a stilted gesture, hesitating, delaying his compliance with the High Priest’s request to turn from his Steward and face his bride. Arden watched as his features hardened, turned to stone. He cast his eyes down and turned.

Sybina spun as well, skirts twisting around her ankles. Arden saw the tears of joy that shone in her eyes for a brief moment before she dropped her gaze, demurely offering her hands for Valory to take. After a brief hesitation, Valory enveloped her hands between his own.

“Do you swear to love and honor the one who stands before you until the day of your eastward journey?” asked the High Priest.

“I do,” Valory murmured.

“I do,” Sybina answered.

“Then in the names of Illen, Fángon, and Ranael may you come together as one. Before the Gods and all of their children you are now known as man and wife.”

Applause echoed throughout the cathedral. Sybina lifted her head, daring to meet her husband’s eyes. Valory leaned forward to finish their vows with a chaste, perfunctory kiss that felt like a hot spear through Arden’s heart. He forced himself to clap, hands heavy and clumsy as though they did not belong to him. He wondered what the bards would say if he was sick all over the altar – a distinct possibility. Hysterically, he began trying to think of rhyming couplets for ‘vomit’ as Valory offered his arm to Sybina and they began their slow walk up the aisle.

Arden and Edmund fell into step behind them. He was vaguely aware of the flower petals that rained down upon them as they passed. He stared at the space between Valory’s shoulder blades, a pleasant smile frozen on his face.

They passed pew after pew of friends, family, and other well-wishers. Arden avoided looking at Valory’s men; Gabriel’s knowing, pitying expression would have been too much to bear. Their progress was slow – far too slow, in Arden’s mind – and so it took them several long minutes to make it out to the fresh air. The noise of the crowd gathered in the plaza – anxious to get a glimpse of the new Princess – drowned our Arden’s grateful gasp as they left the oppressive walls of the cathedral behind them.

Arden and Edmund stopped together on the steps; Valory and Sybina would descend and walk a circuit around the inner city square by themselves. They would be joined at the entrance to the palace by Siath, who would confer a royal title unto Sybina, and welcome her to the House of Kings. After that the festivities would begin.

Arden saw those gathered at the front of the crowd begin to bow, and turned. Siath and Verne had exited the cathedral, Persephone alongside them, leading a train of noblemen and women towards the palace gates. Despite his best efforts, Arden could not avoid Siath’s searching stare, nor his gentle, remorseful expression. _You could have married her instead_ , he inwardly accused, even though he knew it wasn’t the case. He shook his head. He needed some space to think: the events of the day had already taken their toll, and the worst had only just begun.

“Lord Steward Arden, walk with us,” Siath intoned, eyes beseeching.

Arden hastened to obey the request. He hated to see the King beg.

“Escort an old woman, would you?” Persephone asked, drawing up beside him. Miran, her usual escort, was supporting the Lady Agatha’s belabored steps.

“I would never refer to you as such, my Lady,” Arden protested, offering his arm.

“Ever a Steward,” she remarked, dropping her voice as she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. “And a remarkable actor.”

Arden cast a sharp glance at her. “I hadn’t thought so.”

“No? Even your brother is unaware that aught is amiss.”

“Then I must stay on my guard, else he or any others came to realize that I am –” Arden cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head. “Apologies, my Lady. I am not myself today.”

Persephone pressed his elbow. “Duty can be cruel. You bear the strain admirably – you and Valory both.”

“It is as it must be. As you have said, my Lady.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “but the mother in me hates to see her boys in pain.”

Arden was floored by her choice of words – and her easy inclusion of him in her family. “My Lady?”

“In a different world, my son would have wanted to take your hands on the altar this morning. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that Siath and I won’t honor that in our own way.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” The sentiment struck a chord within him. He had never known the soft sort of care and consideration a mother could give. He swallowed.

“Keep your head up, my boy. Be strong. You’ll persevere, and the worst will be over after tonight.”

Arden twitched at the reminder. “That is my hope.”

That was all there was to say on the matter. Not one for small talk, Persephone walked with him in silence, allowing him to turn his roiling thoughts back inward. He took a deep breath, attempting to center himself. The day stretched long before him. He begged Illen for strength. After a moment’s hesitation, he sent out a quiet appeal to his ancestor as well. _Drand, how did you do it?_

As they approached the steps to the palace, Arden escorted Persephone to their place behind the King. From their vantage point, they could see the Regent and his bride making their slow progress around the perimeter of the crowd. Whatever he claimed, he knew exactly how Drand had borne his burden. He had shouldered it simply because he had no other choice.

…

As the men and women throughout the hall raised their glasses and shouted their toasts, Arden found himself enjoying a moment of unadultered amusement at Valory’s discomfiture. It was rare, Arden acknowledged, to have one’s return from the head be so celebrated – but as the bridegroom, Valory’s brief absence had been noted. Waving off the cheers, Valory wound his way through the couples that still spun around the dance floor hours after the musicians first picked up their instruments. Arden wondered how they still had the energy. Surely the musicians had already begun to repeat their repertoire?

The long banquet – replete with sets upon sets of toasts and speeches – had been easier to bear than Arden might have hoped. At the very least he was thankful to be finished with his own toast. Although it had been difficult to write, the act of giving it had more than made up for the hours he had spent agonizing over word choices: there were few things Arden wouldn’t do to draw the rare, unguarded smile Valory had bestowed upon him afterwards. The toasts were an excuse to continue topping up his cup, as well; a crutch, perhaps, but one that Valory was indulging in himself if the slight warble in his gait was not an affectation.

Sybina looked up, adoring, as Valory reached the high table. He nodded at her before sliding into his seat, slumping down with a sigh. Despite the drink he had imbibed, his eyes were still shrewd and quick as they flicked up to rest on Arden’s face.

“Does the celebration of my return so amuse you, Steward-mine?” he rumbled.

“It had occurred to me that this might be the first round of applause you’ll have received for carrying out a bodily function since your time in the nursery,” Arden quipped.

Valory snorted, a grin ghosting over his features. “A bit much, the whole thing.”

“Far be it from an Armathian to turn down the opportunity for celebration,” Arden noted, “even if it’s not the sort we’re more accustomed to.”

“What I wouldn’t give to escape to the Black Wave,” Valory said under his breath, low enough that even Arden had to lean in to make sense of the words.

“I’m afraid we’re unable to make a dash for it this time,” Arden agreed, fighting to keep the melancholy out of his voice.

“For the best, perhaps,” Valory said, also struggling to keep his tone light, “as we both know I’d win the race to Tavern Row, and it wouldn’t be the wisest to have another round at present – even if you bought. I’m already in my cups.”

“So certain of your victory, are you? A bold assumption, there,” Arden laughed.

“I seem to recall the trajectory this conversation took last time. I rather think I proved my skill at riding to you on that occasion,” Valory said, eyes raking over his Steward, “and on my preferred mount, no less.”

Arden let out a huff of breath, putting down his cup. The wine was heating his blood, pushing a score of suggestive thoughts and phrases to the forefront of his mind. “I am trained as a naturalist, my Lord. We men of science value the replication of our results.” He was well aware of the gross impropriety of the thread of their conversation – sitting next to Valory’s wife, no less – but the warmth that blossomed within him as the recipient of Valory’s attention made it impossible to still his tongue.

“A Regent and his Steward!” The proclamation came from Lord Alec, who approached the table red-faced with drink. “I hope you’re doing your duty as his second, Lord Arden, and giving him some pointers,” Alec continued.

Arden stiffened. “You are in mixed company, Lord Alec.”

Alec’s head swung towards Sybina, who sported a pretty blush. “Apologies, my Lady – my words were uncouth but the sentiment behind them is the same. I came to extend my congratulations to both of you.” He swayed a bit where he stood, turning back towards Valory. “Your Princess is a vision, my Lord. I’d listen to your Steward’s council in this; it’d be a shame to leave her wanting.”

“ _Thank you_ , Lord Alec,” Valory bit out.

Another councilor – one of Alec’s cohort – must have noticed that he had found his way up to the high table and rushed forward to interrupt him before he said anything unforgivable. Taking Alec by the arm, he bowed and murmured his congratulations to Valory and Sybina before steering him back towards the wings of the room. After several steps Alec turned back to the high table and executed a wobbly bow, after which he allowed his designated minder to lead him elsewhere.

Alec’s words doused the pleasant glow that had begun to spread through Arden’s limbs, reminding him with painful clarity that it was not his bed that Valory would fall into at the end of the night. Even as his stomach twisted itself into knots of helpless frustration, the weight of Valory’s hand landing upon his knee served as a balm. He knew that the pride he took at sitting in a place of honor at Valory’s right – and holding Valory’s attention as he did – was childish. He knew that, and yet the single long, slow press of his knee still filled him with some measure of hope, some feeling of victory.

When one of the servers appeared at his elbow proffering a flagon of wine, Arden held out his cup once more. As he took a long gulp from his topped up glass, he noted that the final course of the meal was being laid out on the table. Plates laden with fruits and sweets were placed at intervals, giving guests access to countless fine Armathian pastries and sweet breads. A single etched-glass bowl was put before Valory and Sybina, two thick slices of a ripe, rum-soaked mango inside. The traditional Armathian dessert had long been a part of wedding ceremonies. The bride and groom would exchange pieces to mark the beginning of the final course. Once their plates were clear, the night would finally come to a close.

The tinkling noise of cutlery tapping against glasses began, increasing in volume as more and more well-wishers rapped their forks against their cups, smiling and calling out to the bride and groom. Waving off the noise with a strained smile, Valory picked up one of the slices, turning towards his wife. Sybina’s response was shy, eyelashes fluttering as she leaned forward and allowed her husband to feed the slice of mango to her. A delicate blush crept up her cheeks. Her lips barely grazed Valory’s fingertips as they closed over the sweet; the applause she received only caused her cheeks to redden further.

Arden sat stiffly in his chair as Sybina picked up the second slice, fighting to force memories from his cabin on _Windjammer_ out of his head. Mangoes had been the first peace offering he had made to the Prince, back when they had only just met and Arden had been unable to imagine that Valory’s words were flirtation. The sweet had been the small comfort from home the evening of the battle at Illen’s Arm, when Valory had tended the marks given to him by the Sea-Witch King.

Valory took the mango from Sybina with little ceremony, eyes focused on the fruit rather than her face. Sybina blushed once more as the applause began, clapping interspersed with the tinkling noise of silver on glass.

It was nothing like their time on _Windjammer_ , when Valory had seized Arden’s wrist and taken his slice of mango, tongue returning to suck the juice from his fingertips. Staring down into his cup, Arden watched his wine ripple, a morose little pulse of sympathy. He frowned. It was unwise to let his thoughts spiral into such melancholy remembrances – particularly on a day when wind and water seemed to bend to his mood.

Valory must have felt the tug of Arden’s enchantment, for he turned to glance back in his Steward’s direction, an unhappy twist of his mouth informing Arden that yes, he remembered that night on Kilcoran, and yes, Arden’s melancholy was shared. _I don’t know how much more of this I can endure, Val._

Sybina touched Valory’s arm, drawing his attention back in her direction. Verne, who had been sitting to Arden’s right earlier in the evening, returned to his seat for the final course. Arden noted that he returned alone.

“Is Agatha alright?” he queried.

Verne nodded. “Tired, only. I arranged for her escort home. She asked me to bid you goodnight in her stead.”

“Kind of her,” Arden said, returning his stare to his glass. “She seemed to enjoy herself tonight.”

“She has been better, with the ginger extract and the passage of time,” Verne agreed. “I will admit that I had not expected to see you enjoy yourself quite so much, either. You spent much time on the floor tonight.”

Arden shrugged. “It is a night for celebration, is it not?”

Beside them, Sybina had slid her hand beneath Valory’s atop the table as she picked at her plate of dessert. “I had not known you for having an interest in courtly arts, though that might be an impression left from . . . before,” Verne admitted.

Arden chewed his lip, weighing his response. “Shipboard, there is always merrymaking before and after campaigns and battles. We had a fiddler on board _Windjammer_ ; there was always dancing.”

“Of a different sort, surely,” Verne replied, interest piqued.

“I prefer the exuberance of the steps of more common dances – I thought them better suited to the moment. I suppose I learned to derive pleasure for the reserved nature of formal dance after exposure to others.”

Verne considered this. “Then what need have you of the taverns in the lower circles?”

“Are you planning on turning this into a lecture on my sailor’s habits?”

“I only wish to reiterate that, as the Regent’s Steward, your actions will come under renewed scrutiny. It will not do to play the part of the rake,” Verne warned.

“Do the gossipmongers suppose that I am trawling for trollops when I visit Tavern Row?” Arden arched a brow.

“Not as yet, but if you continue to socialize with lowborn only to occupy the floor on nights such as this, tongues will wag.”

“Because I spent the night dancing?” Arden asked, confused.

Verne tsked. “Because you repeatedly chose newly-debuted women as your partners. Really Arden, did your sense of propriety take sail alongside you all those years?”

Arden had to admit that Verne made a good point. In his distraction he had paid little mind to the women on his dance card. “If they’re all thinking that I’m looking to follow in my Lord’s footsteps, they are mistaken. I have no desire for a wife.”

“Then at the very least choose with more caution. This is the High Court of Armathia, not some romp in a tavern. The daughters of noblemen are not to be toyed with.”

“Then who am I meant to dance with – their sons?”

Arden regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but was relieved to see that Verne found the suggestion preposterous enough to meet it with an eye roll. “Don’t be glib with me, now – it’s unbecoming of a Steward. You know full well what my suggestion is: with your Lord finally married, it is time for you to think on doing the same.”

Arden snorted. “Brother, we are on the precipice of war and I am about to set sail for a Western tribal council. Now is most assuredly not the time to distract myself with talk of marriage. Turn your attention to your Liege, if the urge to make matches is so strong. It at least makes sense for him to get an heir.”

“My Lord is examining prospects,” Verne admitted. “But Arden—”

Arden shook his head. “I’ll be more sensitive to courtly manners if you think I am damaging our House’s reputation – but I’ll not be wed before my departure. I have enough on my shoulders without adding responsibility for some poor girl.”

Verne’s frown was thoughtful. “Conrad and I had always thought that you would turn out to be the romantic between us. Perhaps we were wrong.”

“You have met your matches. I—” Arden trailed off. “Well. I have other matters occupying my time at present,” he finished lamely, struggling to keep his gaze from sliding sideways towards Valory. Verne would be horrified to learn of his true reasons for avoiding the business of marriage.

He lost the struggle as Edmund stood, the movement attracting his attention. Sybina looked up from her plate to regard her father, who held out his arm in preparation to escort her from the banquet. The night was coming to an end.

Letting go of Valory’s hand, Sybina cast a final glance over her shoulder at him before following her father away from the table. As soon as the partygoers noticed the movement, they began tapping their glasses, wishing their final congratulations to the bride as she was escorted from the room.

Verne leaned back towards him. “I trust you’ve prepared for this?”

“You know I’ve made arrangements, else I’m sure you would have stepped in and made them yourself,” Arden muttered. “We’ll have the nightcap in the sitting room of the adjoining suite.”

“Very good,” Verne nodded. “The rest will be simple enough for you, I imagine – the Regent is not a young lad by any standard. He may not have a reputation for carousing, but I doubt he’ll have much need of ‘advice’, no matter what tradition may dictate.”

Arden made a face. “I should certainly hope not.”

“Now what could Lord Verne possibly have said to put such a look on your face, Steward-mine?” Valory asked, leaning back in his chair to join their conversation.

“We’re merely speculating whether or not I should draw up a plan of action for you, complete with labeled diagrams,” Arden replied.

Valory snorted. “Lord Alec nearly beat you to it. I haven’t received so many unsolicited pointers on the matter since I came of age.”

“We all endure it the night we are wed,” Verne said. “If I may offer one more, my Lord – perhaps you should make ready to go to your bride. Her handmaids will keep her company until your arrival, but it is considered a slight to keep her waiting long.”

Valory let out a sigh, taking a final swallow of wine before standing. “Very well, then; I suppose there’s no sense in tarrying. Ready, Steward-mine? I’m told the lecture is to occur in Valoren’s old sitting room.”

“Yours now, my Lord,” Verne reminded him.

Valory shrugged. “I suppose so, yes – but I will always prefer the tower. Enjoy the rest of the evening, Lord Verne. Give my best to your wife.”

“Of course, my Lord. Congratulations.”

Arden stood as well, bidding his brother goodnight and following Valory’s brisk turn about the room, clasping arms with well-wishers and forcing himself to smile at the innuendo that underscored each conversation. Before long he and Valory were able to escape to the corridor, the tinkling of silver upon glass following them out. Once their course was set for the Regent’s suite, however, their pace slowed to a near-crawl; neither was eager to hasten the night’s end.

The sounds of the celebration faded to a dim hum as they drew further from the Great Hall. Arden could hear crickets and tree frogs making their night music through each open window they passed. Away from the roaring fires, a chill hung in the hallways of the palace. Arden felt the fuzz of mild intoxication blurring his senses, lending their walk a dreamlike quality.

“I would have set us up in the tower, had I known you would have preferred it,” he said, breaking the silence.

“No,” Valory intoned, words interspersed with the sounds of their feet tapping against stone. “The tower is my space. I hadn’t meant for it to become the backdrop for the Regent’s social obligations.”

“You plan to keep it, even now?”

“I will do my duty in the Regent’s suite, but the tower is mine alone,” he said.

“Your refuge,” Arden supplied.

“Perhaps yours as well, in some way.”

They stopped before the door to the Regent’s suite, laid out in the wing next to the one occupied by the King. The suite had two entrances: once for the Regent and one for his wife, each leading to a private sitting room off of which expansive bedrooms and washrooms were built. The two halves of the suite were connected by a common sitting area, impeccably furnished, which opened out to a large, verdant, garden-style balcony. The layout permitted the couple to throw open the doors to their sitting rooms and entertain guests jointly, or retreat to the privacy of their own spaces as needed. Although newlywed couples would lie together for the sake of establishing their line, it was not uncommon for them to sleep apart.

They entered Valory’s sitting room to find the fire already lit, and two wingback chairs sat before it. On the table between them were two glasses filled with different shades of amber liquid. Valory unbuckled his belt, dumping it on a chair near the door. He toed off his sandals as well, nudging them out of the way with a foot.

“What now?” he asked.

“We’re meant to take a nightcap, I’m told,” Arden said, crossing the room to stand behind his chair. “Not that I need more drink, but.”

Valory nodded, pacing a slow circle around the room, examining the sparse artwork and furniture before taking his seat. “Valoren was a man of simple tastes.”

“I’m of the mind that his Steward arranged it this way, and he never cared to change it. I considered moving some of the furniture, but the rug has long since been stained by the sun. You’ll have to replace it should the room not suit you.”

“I can’t imagine I’ll spend enough time here to make it worth the while.”

“No doubt what Valoren himself said under very similar circumstances.” Arden paused, picking up his glass and swirling the liquid around. “Do you ever feel as though we’re repeating the steps that those who came before us have already taken?”

“Sometimes, perhaps. That seems a good thing, to me. We come from admirable stock. Why?”

“I suppose I have felt an eerie sort of prescience at times – today in particular,” Arden admitted.

“You are a Seer,” Valory reminded him. “I know your talent runs to future events, but the past few weeks of ceremony are steeped in tradition. I would have been surprised had it not tickled your enchantment.”

“Mmm,” Arden hummed, playing with his drink, making the liquid slip up and down the insides of the glass. “The alcohol helps, I’m sure.”

“I confess I have been far more liberal with the bottle this evening than might be considered wise,” Valory said, regarding his own glass. “What is this?”

“It’s a tincture of brandy and redroot extract.” Arden hadn’t taken his eyes off of his glass.

“Ah.” Redroot was a known aphrodisiac; its extract was famous for its potency. “There’s quite a lot in here, for it to color my drink so.”

“I measured the quantities myself after some consultation with an herbalist. I didn’t mean to imply . . . well. This is a delicate matter,” Arden said, flustered. He supposed it had been too much to hope that Valory wouldn’t notice his drink had been doctored.

“No, it was prudent of you to do so. It has been a long time since I have lain with a woman, and I had wondered if the drink would be friend or foe to me tonight. The redroot . . .” he halted, gesturing towards the glass.

“Her handmaids will collect her bed sheets in the morn. I’d have hated for either of you to lose face if . . .” Arden sighed. The conversation had become unbearably awkward in the space of a few moments.

Valory grunted. “Well done, then. I hadn’t even thought about how my . . . handicap in this situation might come down on her.” He cast a baleful glance at his drink. “The poor girl deserves better than this – a husband who must drug himself to bed her.”

Arden took a long swallow from his glass, glad for both the distraction and the burn that traced a path down the back of his throat. “She could have done worse.”

“I’m not convinced that ‘you’re not the worst of them’ are words to live by.”

“No,” Arden agreed, “they’re not. But I’m afraid there are no Illen-sent turns of phrase that can ease your guilt and send you to her bed carefree and whistling.”

“Apologies,” Valory said. “You are trying to bolster my spirits, and I am being a bear.”

“That’s what Siath called you, is it not?” Arden asked, taking another sip. “You’re in a piss-poor situation, Val. We both are. We’ve both been whinging about it, as well.” He drank again. The liquor was going straight to his head. “But I’ll be damned if I’m not relieved on some disgusting, petty level that you’re as upset as I am.”

“Misery and company,” Valory noted.

“Yes, yes. Why aren’t you drinking?” Arden asked.

Valory grimaced, taking a great gulp of the liquid. The fine brandy was ruined by the saccharine taste and syrupy texture of the extract. “This is vile,” he muttered.

Arden sighed, finishing his glass and standing. “I know.”

“I was referring to the—”

“I know.”

Arden meandered through the sitting room, plucking volumes off of shelves to examine them, peering at the few paintings, avoiding the sight of his reflection in the lone mirror. He returned to the fire to stop before Valory’s chair: limbs warm, head dizzy, blood rushing in his ears.

“We’ll both have bottle ache for council tomorrow,” he sighed.

Valory closed his eyes, tipping his head back and draining his glass in a few final swallows. “I wager I’ll be in worse shape than you.”

Arden hummed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on each wing of Valory’s chair. His head hung just above Valory’s upturned face. “Verne will be scraping me off the breakfast table without an ounce of pity, I’m sure,” he said, breath puffing against Valory’s lips. He could hear the hitch in Valory’s voice at their proximity.

“Will you go to the House of Stewards then, tonight?” he asked, hands rising to splay over the sides of Arden’s ribcage.

“Yes.”

Valory frowned. “I’ve become accustomed to having you in the tower.” He pushed himself out of the chair, standing so that he and Arden were nearly chest-to-chest.

“As have I,” Arden admitted. “Unwise of us, perhaps.” He reached up to pull Valory’s hair free of its queue, combing his fingers through the already-tangled strands. “You can hardly go to meet your bride looking so severe.”

“Arden.”

“You should not tarry long. The drink will take effect soon,” Arden cautioned, unable to summon the willpower to take his hands from Valory’s face where they had come to rest.

Valory stepped forward, pressing them flush together. He rested his brow against Arden’s, noses sliding together as they shared one another’s breath. He felt heat rising in his body as Arden’s mouth ghosted across his, stubble dragging across his lower lip. “I will want for your company tonight,” he said.

Arden let out a low groan. “And I, yours. Go to her, Val. Now. By tarrying we are only making this worse.”

“Will you see me afterwards?” The question was whispered against Arden’s lips.

“No.”

Valory did step back at that, gaze no less piercing for all that he had imbibed. “I’m not implying—”

“I know that.” Arden stepped back as well. “But I will not wait up. I cannot.” He turned away. “It’s your wedding night. You have already bemoaned your inability to be a true husband to the girl; don’t make it any worse. My part in the night is over. I will see you tomorrow.”

“Arden,” he protested, catching his shoulder before he made for the door.

“Don’t ask it of me. Please.” He could almost feel Valory deflate at his words, and hated that they were put into a position where they were forced to hurt one another so. He knew that Valory would feel wretched afterwards. He wanted to find the strength to offer comfort, but he didn’t have it in him. He couldn’t bear to see Valory come straight from the bed of his wife.

“You’re right. That’s too much to ask,” Valory murmured, sounding as defeated as Arden had ever heard.

Arden turned back, catching Valory’s face in between his palms and kissing him once more, closemouthed, hard. “Tomorrow.”

“Until then.”

Taking those words as his dismissal, Arden strode to the sitting room door. Casting one final glance over his shoulder, he left the Regent’s suite and shut the door behind him.

The air in the hall felt cold on his face. Turning away from the door, Arden set a brisk pace. He had planned the end of his own night as meticulously as he had planned his part in the wedding ceremony itself. It was time to go home, crawl under the fresh linens of his bedclothes, and treat himself to the sleeping draught he’d had Little prepare for him. He hoped for a dreamless night. He wanted nothing more than to sleep away the last hours of this damned day and awaken to a fresh, new morning.

…

Valory paced around the room, following the discolored path that had been trod into the old carpet through years of use. It felt rough and flat beneath his bare feet, stiff fibers scratching against his skin. The pacing calmed him, focusing his nervous energy as he forced himself to pay attention to the tingle in his limbs, the heat in his belly. He had carried a leaden burden of guilt over this situation upon his back for months – a burden that he had to lay aside for the night if he had any hope of doing his duty. He paused, hand on the door that joined his rooms with Sybina’s. The least he could do was give her his undivided attention – if only for that night.

He crossed through the two empty rooms between them, giving a brief warning knock before entering her bedchamber. As soon as he opened the door her handmaids leapt up from their seats to curtsey. Knowing that their part in the evening had ended, the two young women set about gathering their things, tittering quietly as they did. Valory stood unmoving near the door, watching their progress with one eye and Sybina with the other. He felt himself begin to sweat, and blamed it on the fire that burned in the hearth on the far side of the room.

Sybina did not return his stare. Clad only in a sheer, silken nightgown she looked so young; without the elaborate hairstyle and trappings of her station, she was no more than a girl. He tried to find some feature – any feature – that he could find himself attracted to, but struggled. All he could focus on was the gratitude he felt towards Arden for his impertinent inclusion of redroot extract in their nightcap.

The handmaids bobbed a second curtsey as they approached the door. Valory waved them off this time. They swept through the door in a flurry of giggles, calling goodnight to Sybina as they went.

The latch clicked shut, and they were alone.

Sybina began to play with the ribbons of her gown, twisting them around her fingers. Valory didn’t fail to notice that, every few moments, she would glance up at him as though she was unsure whether or not she had permission to watch him openly. He knew he should act, but his head swam with drink and he found himself unable to decide what to do. Did she want him to warm her with sweet words? To take her into his arms, gaze into her eyes, and make some romantic declaration? He hoped her head was not filled with such notions; he was no poet.

“My Lord,” she said after several long minutes of silence, “would you tell me what would please you? I don’t know what to do.”

Even in the dim light, Valory could see the blush climbing up her neck. He wiped the sweat from his palms down his trousers. He sent up silent thanks to Illen that his bride had taken the pragmatic approach. “You only need follow my lead,” he said, closing the gap between them. Sybina looked up as he drew near, meeting his eyes after a moment of hesitation. He lifted a hand, cupping her cheek in one palm. He did not fail to notice the way she leaned into the caress. Shutting his eyes, he kissed her.

Her lips were pliant and still. He reached out to touch her, callouses catching on the soft fabric of her gown. Though he kept his eyes shut and his head spun from the drink, little cues like the smell of her perfume, the softness of her skin, the smoothness of her upper lip all served to render it impossible for him to imagine another body in her place. That thought alone sent a stab of guilt lancing through him.

Shutting his eyes tighter still, he allowed his hands to smooth up and down her back, avoiding her long, unbound hair. He was aroused despite himself, body reacting to the extract Arden had prepared. Valory clamped down on that thought, shoving it from his mind. He could not think of Arden. Not now. He would not defile either of them that way: not his Steward, nor his wife.

He pulled away from Sybina for long enough to find the laces for her gown. She angled her body to aid him, yet the tilt to her shoulders and the teeth that worried at her lower lip spoke volumes about how shy – and nervous – she was. He tried to find words of comfort for her, but they wouldn’t come.

Valory kissed her again as he pulled the silk from her body, pressing her gently down to lie on the bed. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her watching him with doe-like eyes as he stripped off his tunic. To his surprise, he felt her reach out and tentatively lay a hand on his chest. Her fingers raked through his chest hair, traced the long line of a scar, and came to rest just above his navel. She glanced down at the front of his trousers before looking back up at him, beseeching, unsure of how to continue.

“Lie back, Sybina,” he murmured. She obliged immediately, appearing relieved to have some direction. He followed her onto the bed, allowing her to strain up and kiss him a second time.

He pet her sides, her stomach, her thighs, listening to the soft little sighs of pleasure she breathed against his lips at the sensations. He hesitated, breaking the kiss to watch her upturned, flushed face for a moment before moving to graze his fingers over the apex of her thighs. She made a small noise, eyes screwed shut, hands reaching out and grasping for his shoulders.

Valory shut his eyes once more, palming himself through his trousers with his other hand. Everything about the encounter felt alien and mechanic. Focusing on her beauty was unappealing. Thinking upon another bedfellow seemed wrong. Instead, Valory attempted to divorce his thoughts from his actions entirely, trying to feel and feel alone. He opened the placket of his trousers and small clothes with one hand, not taking the other from her body. Cracking an eyelid, he noted that she had lifted her head up and was peeking at him with no small amount of curiosity. The expression on her face when he caught her looking sent a dart of fondness stealing through him, and she smiled at him in return, reaching out to touch the side of his face. He took a moment to wonder whether the drink was dulling the impact of her awful enchantment before shrugging the thought off as irrelevant and distracting.

He knelt up, pressing at her thighs to encourage her to part them. Spitting in his hand, he slicked himself before guiding himself to her entrance. She gasped slightly at the touch, hips jerking involuntarily. He gripped a hip to hold her still with one hand as he pressed inside, using what mental faculties remained in his possession to force himself not to analyze or make comparisons.

Sybina tensed, a grimace twisting her features. “It’s—”

“A bit painful, I know. Take a breath.”

She nodded, obedient, inhaling slow and deep. As she did, he pressed forward in a firm stroke, feeling the resistance within her give way. She let out a startled noise.

“Hush,” he murmured, “relax yourself. That was the worst of it.” He wondered whether he was talking to her, or to himself.

Valory had always prided himself upon being a considerate lover, and though his preference did not run to women, he nevertheless felt compelled to be good to her. Shutting his eyes again he propped himself up on his elbows and kept a slow rhythm, allowing her to turn his head and kiss him, run her hands through his hair, pet at the muscles in his arms and shoulders. He thought of nothing: the act itself did not require it. With a blank mind he continued as her heart thudded harder, her breath came in short gaps, her fingertips dug into his biceps. As she neared her peak, he moved one hand back to her sex to work in counterpoint with his rhythm. As she began to clench around him, he felt a small pulse of satisfaction knowing that he had not left her wanting.

As she relaxed back into the mattress he picked up his pace, chasing his own peak with the most efficiency he could muster in his present state. Within the space of a few minutes he felt that familiar sharp throb reverberate through his body, and spilled within her. She let out a surprised little gasp at the sensation as he stilled. After a long moment he rolled over onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Much to his relief Sybina did not have any words to share with him. As the sweat began to cool on their bodies, she curled up against his side, fitting her head into the crook of his shoulder. It wasn’t minutes before she had dropped to sleep, breath evening out and signature dying off to the faintest buzz. He lay there for some minutes more, ensuring that she had fallen deeply asleep before extracting himself from her embrace and sliding off the bed.

He didn’t glance back at her sleeping form as he laced his trousers and pulled his tunic back over his head. He made it to the doorway before hesitating, crossing the room to stand by the bed once more. Careful so as not to wake her, he pulled the light covers from the foot of the bed to cover her still form.

He left the room in silence, shutting the door behind him and making straight for Valoren’s old sitting room. He suspected he would always think of it as Valoren’s old sitting room, no matter long it had been since his great uncle had occupied the space. Bursting with half-formed thoughts, Valory located his sandals and toed them on, pacing a few agitated circles around the room before making for the hallway.

His mind was a whirl of guilt. His bride would wake to an empty bed, but the thought of spending the night in that room was unfathomable to him. He thought of the expression on her face when he stood before her bare for the first time, and shook his head as if to dislodge the memory. He had only seen a look of such open adoration on the face of one other. He swallowed, striding through the halls as quickly as his feet could carry him.

It was well past midnight, but Valory was almost tempted to exercise his rank and call for a bath to be drawn. In all of his travels he had never felt so unclean, so in need to wash the day’s deeds from his body. Shaking his head again, he resolved to have one in the morning; he would not call any from their bed at such an hour to assuage his guilt.

Despite his initial desire to hurry through the cold halls, he drew to a halt before an archway that led to one of the palace’s gardens. Familiar with the space due to its proximity to the tower, his mind conjured the image of the small fountain-like altar that stood amongst ancient sweetflower trees. He hesitated, thinking once more of a hot bath before making his decision and turning into the courtyard.

The moon painted the garden in a silver glow, casting deep shadows beneath flower-laden boughs. Folk tales about the palace claimed that Eramen himself had planted some of the trees, though Valory tended to think it exaggeration. Armathia was a city steeped in history, but not even a sweetflower tree could last the span of an age.

The night was cold enough that he could see his breath. A slight shiver wracked his shoulders as he sunk to his knees on the cold stone before Illen’s altar. He traced his hand over the beautiful mosaics – some of which were so old that the color had faded with generations of sunshine and rain. His eyes roved over the offerings other occupants of the palace had left behind – shells, jewelry, fruits – and frowned. He had nothing to give to Illen but his words.

“I have begged too many boons of you, my Lady,” he whispered. Above him, a night bird whistled. “I have given little in return. I have—” he broke off, shutting his eyes. His head still spun. “I have dealt much damage tonight. I know not how to repair it. Please, I beg you for your guidance.”

He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots as though the sharp bite of sensation would clear the fog from his head. “What do I say to make things right?” he asked aloud, voice echoing off the altar. He lowered his voice. “He will shrug and call it all a matter of duty. He will say that, and turn from me. Doesn’t he know I can’t—”

He shut his eyes, head falling forward against the altar. “Forgive me,” he whispered, “forgive me, forgive me. Gods Arden, forgive me.”

He desperately wanted to go to Arden, to see him, to be in his presence, to listen to his calm words and watch his eyes crinkle at the corners and trace the silvered edges of the scar on his nape. To set matters right that very instant, for he couldn’t imagine letting them keep until morning. He knew that his desires were selfish. Acting upon them would serve as a balm for him, but at the same time, would only wound Arden further. He had no right to ask for comfort from his companion – not tonight.

Valory stood, wiping the dirt from his knees. He touched his brow before leaving the altar and making for his suite. It was time to put an end to the night; resolution would come in the morrow.

He took the stairs to the tower at a punishing pace, reaching his sitting room panting with exertion. He slammed the door to his suite behind him, stripping off clothing haphazardly as he moved through the sitting room into his bed chamber. Without a fire lit to warm it, the chamber was dark and cold. Valory huffed a mirthless breath of laughter. The chamber was dark and cold because this was the first night since his return to Armathia that he had spent alone.

Valory collapsed into bed fully clothed, pulling the covers tight around his shoulders.

He would toss and turn for many hours, thoughts spinning in mad circles, before finding oblivion in sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Grad school is evil.
> 
> I promise I will finish this thing -- all of it. Whether or not I'll finish it promptly, well . . . I think we all know the answer to that.

_The Season of Peace  
Erár the 11; 2422_

“Happy Day, Lord Verne. Will you be celebrating?”

Verne glanced up from his notes. “No.”

“Nothing? Come now, my Lord,” another councilor put in. Several men had come forward to wish the High Steward well on the anniversary of his birth, though some, it seemed, hoped that an invitation might come of it.

“If we make it through the war unscathed and I live to see another year, I’ll be sure to let you organize the fete,” he deadpanned. “This year, however, I have work to do.”

“As you like it, my Lord,” the councilor shrugged. “Either way, it seems your brother reveled enough for the both of you last night,” he added, thumbing a finger towards Arden.

Arden hadn’t moved since council had been dismissed some moments earlier. He stared down at his notes, unseeing, thoughts flying far away from the chamber.

“My brother did his duty last night,” Verne reminded them, voice tight. Arden’s appearance could only be described as haggard; although he had dressed appropriately for council, his hair was unkempt and dark circles hung beneath his eyes.

“As did the Regent, or so I hear,” the first councilor said. “The wife heard tell of it in the gardens this morning.”

The second councilor guffawed. “Rumor has it the Princess made a good match, then,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

Valory, who had vacated his seat some moments earlier to give Verne his best wishes, heard the exchange. “Still discussing my manhood, councilors? I’d have thought that would stop after last night. Am I the subject of a bet, or are you simply of that _persuasion_?” he snapped. Even Verne winced at the venom in his tone.

“My Lord Regent, I—” the councilor stammered.

“You are dismissed.”

The two stunned, shamefaced councilors took their leave. Verne frowned, choosing his words with care; he hardly wanted to be the next victim of Valory’s vicious mood. “I am surprised to find you in such low spirits this morning, my Lord.”

Valory’s nostrils flared. “Is that so?”

Verne knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but a single glance at his brother informed him that the Regent’s own Steward was in no shape to give council at that moment. “Whatever your personal opinion on the arrangement you have entered, it is not your subjects’ fault for expecting more levity in your manner this morning.”

“Siath calls me ‘the bear’ for a reason.”

Verne crossed his arms. “You are the Regent of Oceana. This is your duty. You have always been conscientious about duty in the past, my Lord. Do not let your devotion slip – not now.”

Valory nodded, jaw clenched. “You aren’t wrong,” he said through his teeth.

Verne raised a brow. “Does this surprise you, my Lord?”

“Piss off,” he muttered.

“If it serves as any consolation, my Lord, your brother doesn’t enjoy being contradicted, either.” His eyes flicked about the emptied council chamber. “Might I suggest that you take a long lunch away from the palace and its gossips?”

Valory grunted. “Perhaps I will.”

Verne nodded, fixing Valory with one last shrewd look before taking his leave.

Behind him, Valory could hear Arden going through the motions of collecting his papers and standing. He didn’t turn. He had found it difficult to look at Arden that morning, to see the distress he had caused stamped into his Steward’s features. Arden hadn’t spoken to him since the night before.

By the time Arden descended from the dais the council hall was empty. Valory fell into slow step beside him. They made for the hall in heavy silence, each preyed upon by a stream of relentless thoughts and worries. The faint echo of voices in the distance informed Valory that they were far enough behind the other councilors that they didn’t run the risk of overtaking them. He was thankful for that; Verne may have given him good counsel, but he doubted his own ability to hold his tongue.

They approached a fork in the hall, marked by a frieze that decorated the arched ceiling above them. The branch to their left turned back into the palace; the other split off towards the great hall and exit. Valory began to turn out of instinct, but pulled up short when Arden took a step in the opposite direction. Arden, noticing his hesitation, paused mid-stride.

“Will you be down at the fort for the afternoon?” he asked, voice raspy with disuse.

“I hadn’t given much thought to it,” Valory replied. It was relieving to have the afternoon away from council, however; any more tongue-in-cheek remarks and he would fly so far off the handle he wouldn’t be let back in court for years. “What are your plans for the day?”

“I have an appointment with the High Priest to continue the study of the Book of Zathár.”

“When?” Valory asked.

“Three bells.”

“You have time for a meal, then.”

“That was the plan.”

Valory shifted his weight, fighting the urge to pace. “Come to the tower. We can pass by the kitchens on the way; I know they have food left over from last night.”

Arden dropped his gaze. “I can’t tarry. There are a few things I must prepare before this afternoon. I had wanted to finish them this morning, but I wasn’t feeling much up to it.”

Valory grimaced. “No, I suppose you weren’t. I hardly . . .” He shook his head. “All the more reason to put a meal in us. I couldn’t stomach anything earlier.”

“I have asked for my meal to be prepared and sent to my rooms. I assumed that I would spend the early afternoon in my study. Arden turned away. “I had best—”

“No,” Valory said, voice breaking. “Don’t turn from me, Arden, not today.”

Arden froze. “Very well,” he murmured, eyes flitting back up to Valory’s face. “It would be an easy thing for Agatha’s woman to make an extra portion, if you’re amenable.”

Valory let out the breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. “I’d like that.”

It was a short distance to the great hall and the doors that lay beyond. As they walked neither man was much for conversation, either amongst themselves or with those they passed. Several men and women – politicians, acquaintances, cousins thrice removed – stopped to greet them and congratulate Valory on his marriage. They received monosyllabic responses for their efforts.

Upon passing through the palace gates, Valory was happy to find the plaza empty of the groups of noblemen and women who often gathered there. As Arden led him towards one of the inner city garden’s many winding paths, he decided that the weather was to thank for their unmolested progress; it was cool and overcast, with clouds that threatened rain. A damp chill hung in the air, leaving Valory wishing that he had thought to wear a jacket.

He tried to recall the last time he had been in the private quarters of the House of Stewards. He had taken tea in their courtyard recently; he supposed it must have been in the days before they left for Ithaka. As he puzzled over the details of that visit, he realized that he hadn’t ventured upstairs on that occasion. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been near the House’s private quarters at all, so rare an occurrence was it. Indeed, he had never before seen Arden’s rooms; they had spent most of their time together in the seclusion of the tower suite. He wondered whether that was why Arden was so keen to eat elsewhere that afternoon.

The House of Stewards stood on the opposite side of the square from the palace, the most prominent of private residences in the seventh level. Old as the city itself, it was hewn from the same rock as the palace; a close look at the stone walls revealed the intricate spirals of hundreds of tiny fossilized shells. The heavy wooden door stood open, revealing a cool, open foyer and a large courtyard beyond. As they crossed the threshold, a woman about Ehrin’s age greeted them.

“Your meal is ready, Lord Arden. Should I go down and put together another plate?” she asked, casting a shy glance at Valory.

“If possible,” Arden said.

“Of course, My Lord – you know how Alessia cooks,” the woman replied.

Arden’s lips pulled into a half-smile. “That I do. Is there enough in the larder to last a year, then? Or even enough to feed the whole of the garrison?”

The woman giggled. “She’d be right embarrassed if she heard you talking so, my Lord, but she knows that Lord Verne loves plantains and thought to make some for his day and all. Will you be taking your meal upstairs?”

“In my study,” Arden nodded.

“It’ll be right up, my Lords,” she curtseyed, bustling off towards the kitchen.

Valory followed Arden as he turned towards a staircase off the courtyard. “You have a rapport with your people,” he observed.

“It’d be hypocritical of me to act otherwise after all of those years spent as a mercenary sailor, wouldn’t it?” Arden asked.

Valory conceded the point, lapsing back into silence once again. As he followed Arden through the wide hallways of the house, he struggled to remember the last time they walked together in such uncomfortable silence. Kilcoran? Lyre? Before that?

Arden turned to push open a nondescript door, revealing a sitting room lined with bookshelves. Valory hungrily drank in the details of the space – the papers scattered across an elegant table, the shells propped against the windowsill, the sketches and paintings that covered the walls. On the far side of the room stood a handsome, wood-carved desk. A cursory attempt had been made at tidying its surface; the books and papers it housed were sorted into stacks, some of which Valory recognized from council.

“This is very much your space,” he said as Arden busied himself with the task of clearing the table of academic detritus.

Arden glanced up, hands stilling over a thick manuscript. “Messy?” He gestured towards a loud, colorful painting that stood wedged between a jar of sea glass, an old Armathian standard, and a shadowbox full of fossilized chitons. “Gauche?”

Valory snorted; the painting was by an artist of no mean fame. “Your taste I do not question, although some of your collections are—” Arden raised a brow at him. “Interesting,” he completed.

A soft knock announced the entry of the young maid who seemed surprised to find the table bare. With a shrug she deposited her tray, laying out two simple table settings. “Alessia sends her regards, My Lords, and hopes that the food is to your liking,” she said.

“I’m sure it will be,” Arden assured her. “Thank her for the meal, would you?”

“Of course, my Lord. When should I come back for the plates?”

“I’ll bring them down later. The Regent and I have some important matters to discuss, and would rather remain undisturbed,” Arden said.

She curtseyed. “If that’s your wish, my Lord.” She disappeared through the doorway, shutting it behind her as Arden and Valory took their seats at the table.

Arden stared down at his plate, willing himself to find his appetite. The fried ripe plantains were just the thing for his stomach – Alessia hadn’t made them for Verne’s sake alone – but when he tried one he found it hard to force down. He frowned, wondering whether the stewed beef would better to appeal to his palate. It was no fault of Alessia’s, he knew, that the dish tasted of ash. His stomach rebelled, but he forced himself to swallow. He wondered whether he would fare any better with tea and scones.

Arden had spent several minutes pushing food around with his fork before he noticed that Valory wasn’t eating, either. They were each waiting for the other to say something, to break the seal that stopped up the words in their throats. Arden had a thousand things that he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t even imagine how to voice them aloud.

The loud scrape of Valory’s chair against the floor startled him. He looked up from his plate, watching as Valory crossed the room to stand before the window. Even though it was a cloudy day the shells on the sill lit up bright hues of pink and orange in the light. He watched as Valory ran a finger along a particularly delicate mother of pearl spine.

Arden dropped his fork and stood, feet dragging against the floor as he came to stand at Valory’s elbow. They stared down at the city square together for several minutes more, Valory’s grim profile framed by an old wind chime that hung off to his side. Arden swallowed, opened his mouth, shut it again. He turned, walking back towards the far side of the room. It was easier to speak with his back to Valory.

“How was it?”

The question hung in the air, the exact opposite of what Arden had tried to force out of his mouth. He screwed his eyes shut, leaning his head against a bookshelf.

“Awful,” Valory murmured.

Arden needed no more details. He could imagine just how it might have gone had their roles been reversed; he did not envy Valory’s position one whit. “Ah.”

“I wanted to come here afterwards. It was difficult to stop myself.”

The soft admission punched Arden right behind the breastbone. He turned, watching Valory’s profile for a long moment before pacing back to the window. He stared at the window unseeing, desperate to concoct some turn of phrase that would make the sinking dread inside his stomach evaporate, that would set them to rights once more. He couldn’t find the words.

Valory spoke again, voice raw. “You regret your decision. This.”

Arden glanced sidelong at him, taking in his stony expression. “No.”

“Then?”

“What, does it surprise you that I’m upset? That this isn’t easy for me? I _know_ this isn’t what you chose. I _know_ you’re as miserable as I am. That doesn’t make me feel any better. You’ll have to forgive me for not shamming at happiness in order to alleviate your guilt. I don’t have it in me right now.” Arden winced. Those had not been the words he was searching for, either.

Valory shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect you to. I know it’s unfair to ask you to continue like this for duty’s sake, acknowledging Sybina as my wife when it’s you at my side. But when I saw you in the chamber this morning, you looked so . . .” He lifted a hand. It hung in the space between them for a beat before he dropped it back to his side, gesture aborted.

Arden swallowed. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I hate the thought of her with you, touching you, seeing you, seeing what’s . . .” he trailed off, realizing that he had moved into Valory’s space as he spoke.

Valory’s eyes darkened. “Seeing _what_?” he prompted, voice nearly a whisper.

“Seeing what’s _mine_ ,” Arden growled, pressing Valory back into the windowsill. He could feel his heart thudding within his chest, could feel the hot, quick puffs of Valory’s breath against his lips.

“I didn’t have you pegged for the jealous sort.”

“Oh?” Arden pinned Valory against the widows. “A miscalculation on your part.”

Valory let out a quiet gasp, whether from growing arousal or having his back driven into the windowsill, Arden couldn’t be sure. “So it would seem.” A hand grasped one of Arden’s hips, pulling him in tighter. _Perhaps both, then._

Arden’s voice shook when he spoke again. “She gets to lay claim to you in front of the court. But I—”

“You know where I stand.”

“Yes,” Arden said, fisting a hand in Valory’s hair and claiming his mouth.

Valory’s grip tightened, fingers digging into his hips to drag him closer, back arched against the windows. Arden twisted a hand in the fabric of his shirt, pressing forward onto his toes for leverage, pulling Valory in and kissing, kissing, kissing him the way he’d wanted to do the night before when they had been sitting together in front of the fire.

Valory’s fingers were scrabbling over the small of his back, pulling the tails of his shirt out from his trousers. Arden hummed into Valory’s mouth as bare hands met his waist, enjoying the rasp and drag of calloused palms up and down either side of his spine. His hips found a rhythm, rocking Valory back into the window behind him, lattices creaking ominously with each press.

His hand tightened in Valory’s hair as he took his mouth, trying to draw him in closer, trying to gain the purchase to climb up and around him, to surround him on all sides. They were rutting against the window together and yet it wasn’t enough; he’d crawl inside Valory if he could. The thought set off a reel of images in his mind, causing heat to bloom within him, unfurling in his belly and spine.

He broke this kiss, chest heaving, hand still pulling Valory’s hair taut against the base of his scalp. He pressed their foreheads together. Valory’s breath came out in ragged pants against his lips, blue gaze foggy and unfocused. Arden rubbed his nose against Valory’s, slow, sliding forward until their lips just barely touched. He lipped a kiss to Valory’s mouth, to the hollow of his cheek, to the soft skin beneath his ear.

He dragged his teeth across an earlobe, watching as gooseflesh broke out across Valory’s skin. His palm slid down Valory’s chest, slipping between their bodies as he ground the heel of his hand over the placket of Valory’s trousers. Valory’s fingers tightened over the small of his back. Arden felt him shiver, a pitiful noise escaping his throat.

“I want you,” Arden whispered, lips ghosting over the shell of Valory’s ear.

“Have me.”

Valory sounded wrecked. Arden turned his head. They stared at one another for a long moment.

“My bed—”

“Yes,” he said, pushing away from the windowsill – “Gods, yes.”

…

Arden lay on his back, eyes closed, heart still beating a furious tempo. Despite the warmth of the early afternoon, he felt himself beginning to grow cold as the sweat dried on his skin. Though he knew the covers lay where they had been kicked just below his ankles, he couldn’t summon the energy to reach for them; a lazy lethargy had seeped into all of his limbs, draining him of the jittery tension that had marked the past few days.

Valory had been wild beneath him, intense. Words had spun from his lips, matching Arden’s every demand as they said the things they had been choking back for so long.

_Did she see you like this? Touch you like this?_

_No. Just you._

_You’re mine. Mine alone._

_Yes. Yours._

Arden shifted, stretched, eyes blinking open to rest on the man lying next to him. Muted light filtered through the curtains, leaving a dappled pattern on Valory’s back. After a time he must have felt Arden’s eyes on him, for he turned his head from the window. Thick hair tangled in front of his face. When he made no move to neaten it Arden reached up to brush it away from his forehead, motion morphing into a caress as he did. Valory’s eyes were heavy-lidded. When he spoke, his voice was a quiet rumble.

“I meant what I said. You know that, don’t you?”

Arden let out a long sigh. “I do.”

“Good.” His eyes shut.

“Come here,” Arden murmured, reaching out to draw Valory towards him.

Valory slid over onto his side, kissing the side of Arden’s neck as arms locked about his shoulders. He tucked himself against Arden’s chest, head pillowed over his heart. After some shuffling they found a comfortable pose, Valory’s breath ghosting over the hollow between Arden’s collarbones.

Arden began to card his fingers through Valory’s hair in slow strokes, pleasure stealing through him as Valory went boneless under his ministrations. He was glad to be able to provide the comfort he had withheld the night before. He felt himself relax as well, tension of the past few weeks easing some. He had not yet let go of his anger, but he couldn’t deny how much better he felt with the wedding behind them. For the first time since their return to Armathia, he knew that things between them would be alright.

He let his mind wander, fantastical shapes and phantasms interweaving with more practical thoughts as he drifted on the edge between sleep and wakefulness. He registered the rumbling in his stomach at the edge of his consciousness, but was startled back awake by Valory’s answering laugh, the muffled sound coming out in puffs against the side of his neck.

“It seems you’ve found your appetite,” he said.

“And yours?”

“Perhaps I’ll make a second attempt at Alessia’s plantains sometime later. For now, I find I am . . . quite sated.”

Arden smiled, letting out a little ‘hmph’ of agreement.

Valory cracked an eye, lifting his head to glance over at the window. “Didn’t you mean to make ready for your meeting with the High Priest?”

Arden tightened the circle of his arms, drawing Valory back down towards him. “I have time.”

…

The first bright burst of sunlight made Félix flinch. He ducked his head in reflex, dark hair falling to cover his eyes. Annoyed at its length – he was beginning to look borderline _Oceanic_ – he moved to push it out of his face. As he lifted his arms, the rough metal of his cuffs bit into his wrists.

“No dawdling,” the guard behind him warned, giving him a solid push.

Félix would not allow him the satisfaction of stumbling. Blinking against the glare reflecting off of the city’s white walls, he lifted his head high and resumed his steady, graceful stride. Let his captors know that, for all of the time he had spent in chains, he remained unbowed. He tilted his face up to the sky. It had been too long since he had seen sunlight, and the warmth and brightness of it was a balm to his tired, sore spirit.

People stopped and stared as they went by. For the sake of putting on a show, the guards intermittently yanked at the chain that bound his hands behind his back. Some of the crowd spat on his feet when he passed too near. The disrespect was galling. He met their eyes with a cold stare, but forced himself not to retaliate. He would not entice another beating for the sake of their amusement.

He thought of Ehrin then, the memory of his first night on _Windjammer_ coming unbidden. He resisted the urge to rub at his jaw: Ehrin had not abided such disrespect from him, consequences be damned. He couldn’t help but admire her for that, as conflicted and confusing as his thoughts on the matter were. One of his closest (one of his _only_ , if he were honest) friends had fallen by her hand, yet it was difficult to fault her for it. It was not Ehrin who provoked the attack upon her vessel. She had joined the conflict in a bid to protect her home. In some ways, perhaps, they were square.

That supposed, of course, that the campaign to the isles had as admissible a purpose as the defense of one’s livelihood. If he had been told at the beginning of it all that he would be questioning the merit of his actions within the space of a season, he would have scoffed at the very suggestion. Oceana had never been a friend to him, and if the invasion of their isles was the price to pay for freeing his people, he would pay it. Yet the damned Prince – with his unflappable mien and devastating logic – had put a flurry of questions into his head, doubts about his taskmaster. The Prince, who had once seemed to Félix no more than a symbol of all that he fought, had proved himself a worthy adversary: one with no small amount of honor.

The Oceanic were not filled with the unmitigated evil so often associated with them in history books. Pride, perhaps, but not evil: at least, no more or no less than any man of the West. Yet men could lie, could be wrong, could be willfully blind. If the Oceanic refused to accept the offer of their so-called ‘Damned One’, the loss was theirs alone.

The guard pushed Félix forward yet again, sniggering with his companions as he fought for balance. Félix rolled his eyes. Whether Armathian, Januzian, or Dramorian, it seemed that men who worked the dungeons were all cut from the same rotten cloth.

Félix was not prone to flights of vengeful fancy; he’d never have made it to his third decade if he were. Still, he allowed himself a brief moment to imagine the fate of the man behind him when Zathár came for Armathia. It would be the most poetic sort of justice if he were to become as familiar with the steel toe of another’s boot.

As the docks came into view, Félix caught sight of _Windjammer_ and her crew, busy outfitting and provisioning for the long journey ahead. At the sight of the vessel he couldn’t help but wonder what would become of the others when war came to the East. Would the Sarian return to his home country to do battle? Would the Ithakan and Kilcoranian deckhands fight with the same fervor they had shown when defending their isles? Would the Captain stay on his ship until the end, or would he surrender for the sake of his crew as Félix had?

“I don’t see why they’re ransoming this one. He’ll be trouble,” one of the guards was saying, punctuating his words with another tug on Félix’s chain. “What do you have to say to that, eh?” he continued, steel toe connecting with the back of Félix’s ankle. Félix remained silent.

“Stubborn bastard, isn’t he? Quiet, too,” remarked one of the guardsman’s fellows.

“He’s lucky the Regent wanted him fit to travel.” He jerked Félix’s chain once more. “Aren’t you?” Félix stared straight ahead, upper lip twitching into a silent, unseen snarl. Félix expected the retaliation that came at the heels of his stubborn silence. The guard stomped on the chain that linked his ankles, forcing him to pull up short to avoid toppling over. “If it’d been me doing the interrogation, you wouldn’t have been so quiet.” Félix snorted. For all of the guard’s sadistic impulses, he doubted that was the case.

“Yeh,” the other agreed with undisguised glee, “we’d have made you scream, alright.”

These words were accompanied by a sharp jerk to the chain looped around his neck. He couldn’t help the wheeze that escaped him, ire rising within him at the victorious laughter that followed. When the push came this time, he stumbled forward a step before regaining his balance. He lifted his head and rolled his shoulders back, standing up to his not inconsiderable full height. He would not be cowed.

They were close enough to the dock that he could make out Ehrin’s form up on _Windjammer_ ’s deck, staring in their direction with a frown wrinkling her brow. It both did and did not surprise him that she found his mistreatment upsetting; he could have predicted her reaction, but could not understand it.

What would become of Miss Ehrin by the war’s end? He doubted any invading army would show her mercy; not when she was liable to greet them with a raised cutlass. She would not end her days as a prisoner, no. She would fight to the end. It seemed fitting to Félix, for the daughter of Callum bar Samuel was nothing if not a warrior. He couldn’t help but find the thought troubling, however.

As they approached the gangway, the big Sarian stepped up to greet the guardsmen. “You can leave him here with me. Many thanks for bringing him – we’ve had a hectic few days.”

The guards hesitated. “We’d rather restrain him in your brig ourselves,” the one answered. “He’s dangerous.”

The Sarian let out a bark of laughter. “Don’t I know it.” He held out his hand, waiting for the guard to transfer their prisoner. At the guard’s continued reluctance, the Sarian continued, “Remember that this vessel is the Steward’s transport. We have our orders.”

The threat of displeasing the Steward spurred the guard into action, handing off Félix’s chain so quickly one might have thought he’d been burned. The guards continued to dawdle, clearly waiting for an invitation which was not forthcoming. They finally cleared off the gangway as the Sarian turned back towards the midships companionway. Unlike the guards, he gave Félix plenty of slack on the chain to make the descent as easy as possible.

“Right bastards they were,” he muttered as Ehrin dropped down next to them, plucking a pin out of her hair.

She set about picking the lock of the shackle that collared him. “The Regent will be livid when he hears that they collared an officer and paraded him through the streets. Especially given what our commission is.”

Lars winced. “He will be, at that. Are you set to take Belen down to the hold? I’ll wait here, but you know I can hardly fit on that ladder.”

“Of course,” she said, the lock finally giving way with a quiet click. She pulled the metal away from Félix’s neck with a careful hand, gentle fingers examining the bruising left in its wake.

Félix felt his pulse race beneath her fingertips. He clenched his jaw. It had been many months without a woman’s company; perhaps even longer since he had been touched with such a gentle hand. That, surely, was why his heart beat double time.

“Think you can make it down the ladder in that?” she asked, gesturing towards the chain that bound his ankles.

As tempted as he was to rebel – he was no politician’s bargaining chip, and no man’s cargo – he couldn’t find it in himself to struggle against her. He turned and slid down the ladder in silence. By the time Ehrin joined him, he had taken up his old post stretched across one of _Windjammer_ ’s ribs.

Ehrin knelt beside him, unshackling one ankle so she could secure him to the thick iron ring protruding from a crossbeam. Once he was bound to the hull, she crept around behind him to begin work on his hands. “At least your skin hasn’t been rubbed raw. I wouldn’t have wanted you to get an infection.”

Félix shut his eyes, feeling her breath blow warm on the back of his neck. “ _You are singular in that opinion_.”

“It’s not what the Regent or Stewards would have wanted, either,” she argued. “You must know why you’re back here. You know that we’re trying to ally with your people.”

“ _Convenient of Oceana to do so when the mood strikes them, and they have no other recourse._ ” He waited in silence as she parsed his words. Her progress with his tongue was impressive, but she still had much to learn. He frowned, trying to imagine one of the women from his brother’s court attempting to learn Oceanic and snorted at the thought. Ehrin was singular in more ways than her opinion of him.

She let out a long sigh, finally picking the lock that bound his wrists. That such a skill was second nature to her went unremarked. “I don’t rightly know how I feel about it, either. I think you and your people are getting off easy for what you did to Ithaka and Kilcoran.” At the flash in his eyes she made a noise of frustration. “Yes, I _know_ we did the same thing to you half an age ago – you’ve told me. But am I really to be held responsible for something some long-dead king did? Am I supposed to believe that it makes you any _less_ responsible for the things you’ve set in motion here and now?”

“I seek to right an old wrong,” he said.

“By making new ones?”

“I have done what is best for the Madestan people,” he argued, unsure when he started feeling the need to justify his decisions to her.

“If you think that serving Zathár is the best possible decision, then _Gods,_ Félix – I don’t know what else to say to you.” She stood up. “I’ll be by with your meal later. In the meantime . . .” she shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. You’re not a bad man; serving the demon is beneath you. I could scarcely believe my ears when I heard what you had done.”

“ _What do you want from me?_ ” he demanded.

She appeared taken aback by his vehemence. “Just . . . think. Please. Open your eyes and _see_ , because right now I don’t think you do. Zathár will make a fool of you.”

Félix had no words for that. Sensing that he had said his piece, Ehrin turned to scale the ladder, scabbard of her concealed cutlass thumping on each rung as she climbed.

Alone in the hold, Félix thought again of Zathár’s desire for Oceana. Knowing what he did of the crew of _Windjammer_ , it was plain that they would go down fighting – and fighting together – even against the greatest of odds. Sailors and warriors all, they would meet honorable ends. He shook off the part of his mind that lamented the waste of such a crew. It was unwise to forget that they were enemies and that this was the way of things between men on opposite sides.

Yet the thought of Ehrin falling in battle continued to haunt him. He whiled away the rest of the afternoon in silence, trying to focus his thoughts on the upcoming journey. They seemed to circle back entirely without his input, however, bringing Ehrin’s pretty face to the forefront of his mind – her kindness, her spice cakes, the comfort that her conversation had brought him during his confinement. Yes, she was a warrior: but that was not all she was. The thought was as puzzling as it was magnetic – a woman who could save lives and take them, who could kill and nourish with the same pair of hands.

There was no question that, through her deeds, she had earned an honorable death in battle. Still, the thought did not sit right with him. Ehrin had earned such a fate, he thought, but she didn’t deserve it.

He had no idea what to do with that knowledge.

…

“Luxury,” Gabe grinned, flopping into his hammock and crossing his arms behind his head.

Little barked out a laugh, tidying his pack and stacking it on top of the others. He gestured at his own hammock, slung low beneath Gabe’s. To say it was built for a man of slight stature was an understatement. “D’you reckon I’ll even fit into that?”

Gabe shrugged. “I doubt it. It was a good choice, taking the one beneath mine. At least if you topple out you’re closest to the deck.”

“I’m beginning to see why Val always avoided commissioning navy vessels,” he muttered.

Gabe peered at him over the edge of his hammock. “Not like it was on _Windjammer_ , is it?”

“Not a whit. Reckon you’ll miss the lads?”

“Of course,” Gabe frowned. “We all will. Strange, how we’ve only been with them since Ranael’s Day.”

“Seems longer, doesn’t it?” I’m right jealous of the lot of them, taking the boat up to Zaránd. I’ve never been that far West.” Little’s expression was uncharacteristically wistful.

“I think we’ll have our hands full in Anaphe.”

“Come now, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t rather be back on _Windjammer_ ,” Little protested.

“That’s not what I meant. I think we’d all rather make the journey to the West – Val most of all. Yet somehow I doubt that we’ll be bored.”

Little grunted. “Think there will be another assassination attempt?” he asked, giving up the challenge of fitting his legs into his hammock and stretching out on the deck instead.

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

“They’ll be coming for Val this time,” Little said.

“Or us,” Gabriel noted. “He’ll need a guard detail, and I wouldn’t trust any Anaphean to provide it.”

“I don’t know; the Captain of the City Guard seemed like a good enough bloke,” Little remarked. “What was his name?”

“Malcolm. You’re right – he was the one who thwarted the last attack.”

“Didn’t he take an arrow to the shoulder?” Little asked.

“Poisoned, too. It’s a good thing their physician was on hand.”

“Not too many Healing talents down there, are there?” Little nodded. “You’ve got the right of it, though. Good man or not, Malcolm will be nursing an injury like that for some time.”

“Who’s Malcolm?”

Little started. Gabe, in his surprise, nearly upset his hammock.

“For Fángon’s sake, Imran, you can’t just sneak up on a man like that,” Little groused, recognizing the clipped accent of their Lieutenant. The man moved around like a cat.

Imran sniffed. “I will not take blame for your unfortunate powers of observation.”

Little rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“Yes, Imran, it was the man whose swordsmanship you so admired,” Gabe spoke up, answering the unspoken question at the forefront of Imran’s mind.

“Stop that,” Imran frowned.

“Not this _again_ , Imran,” Gabe sighed as Little asked,

“When did you see him fight?”

“He was training his recruits. He had much skill. What of him?”

“He took an arrow for Lady Fiona some weeks back,” Little replied.

Imran frowned. “We will need to be vigilant.”

“That’s what we were discussing. Val will need a guard detail,” Little said.

“He will not like that,” Imran warned.

“You say that as though we’re going to give him a choice. I won’t trust any man of Anaphe to do the job: not even with Malcolm’s say-so. It’ll have to be us,” Little replied.

“Yes, at least one of us must be with him at all times,” Gabe agreed. “It’s not meant to be a slight to him: we all know he can fight. But his enemies will be plotting, and I, for one, take my oath seriously.”

Imran considered Gabe’s words. “He’ll try to shirk us at times.”

“Exactly – he’ll _try_ ,” Little said.

“He’s good at it. Better, if we tire. We must have a rotation,” Imran continued. “If we do this, we will do it right. All of us will be present when he is in a crowd. At least two at meals and council, if the Captain is not present. One will be his constant shadow, even when he is alone.”

“He’ll feel our enchantments. He’ll protest,” Gabe noted.

“Let him. I will argue the point,” Imran said. “If he orders you to stand down, I will do it myself. Valory is a great warrior, but even he will not know I am following him.”

“That would be a lot of work for you. You’d not get much sleep,” Gabe frowned.

“I will sleep when the demon is dead,” Imran retorted.

“With any luck, Val won’t fight us on this. We’d be better off using you to gather information,” Little said.

“I have some projects of my own, yes. You will have to step in when I am away.”

“What of Lady Sybina?” Little asked.

“What of her?” Imran raised a brow.

“Are we to leave her protection in the hands of the Anaphean guard?”

Imran shrugged. “She is one of them, is she not? She is inconsequential.”

“The enemy might not see it that way,” Gabe put in. “She could be targeted to get to Val. Kidnapping, poison – he may not love her, but he would never abandon her to such a fate.”

“Not if he could help it,” Imran agreed. “But he will put Oceana first. If the loyalists turn to extortion, they will be disappointed.”

“Could that start trouble, though? With the state things are in over there, I’m a mite wary of letting anything happen to her on our watch,” Little confessed.

Imran considered their arguments. “Very well. We’ll look after her when we can – but not if it requires shirking our duty to Valory.”

“I suppose that’s the best we can do, with only three of us,” Gabe sighed, leaning back in his hammock.

“It is unfortunate that Lord Arden is not with us,” Imran mused.

Over the past months, some had insinuated that Imran must be resentful of the Steward for taking his place as Valory’s second. Imran found the suggestion absurd. There was no shame in serving beneath a man like Lord Arden. In reality, Arden’s presence was a relief. Valory had habit of finding trouble wherever he went; he was a difficult man to protect. That didn’t even account for his stubborn nature – he was a difficult man to argue with, as well. Imran had been thrilled to learn that Arden had a knack for it.

The companionway ladder creaked under the weight of an approaching sailor. They looked up, seeing first the uniform, then the man.

“Welcome aboard the _Rhane_ , gentlemen. I see you’ve settled in,” Captain Landon said, approaching the men with a smile. He clasped arms with them all around.

“Thanks for having us, Captain. We were glad to hear that you had volunteered for this assignment,” Gabe said.

“Just as I was glad to hear that you would be my passengers. It’s not often that an escort is fortunate enough to transport men who can hold their own in combat,” Landon replied.

“How have the seas been? Any sign of creatures?” Little asked.

Landon grimaced. “Creatures, yes – more often than not. Most are too small to founder a ship, but we have done battle with a few of the giant-type, some of which have no place in this day and age.”

“Reckon we’ll see battle on the way to Anaphe?”

“While I have no intention of straying outside of the Gulf, its waters run deep and there have been reports of creatures within its borders. I’d say the odds are even, so keep yourselves at the ready.” He raised a brow at the noise Imran made. “Lieutenant?”

“Imran got a bit cozy with a squid during our early days on _Windjammer_ ,” Little explained.

“Foul thing tried to drag me overboard,” Imran muttered.

“It’s amazing you survived the attack. Squid are notorious for plucking men from the deck before they can do so much as shout a warning,” Landon remarked.

“There seem to be many such creatures in these waters,” Imran sniffed.

“If you’re thinking about the witches, you need not worry. They’ve made themselves scarce since Elona was retaken.”

“You don’t think they’re regrouping?” Gabe asked. “Zathár will call them to service.”

“I’m sure he will, but we have time. The Regent dealt them a stunning blow. We haven’t even seen any hunting witches these past few weeks, in fact. Even my men have started to settle – and you know how they struggled before Illen’s Arm,” Landon replied.

“When do you think they’ll return?”

Landon shrugged. “Tough to say. From all we’ve learned of late, they’re enough like men that the untimely death of a king would cause trouble and unrest. For all we know there’s a battle of succession going on. I’d wager we’ve bought ourselves a few months.”

“That will give _Windjammer_ time to make it to the West, at least,” Little said.

“Small favors,” Landon agreed.

From the deck above them, they heard the stomping of several pairs of feet. “Captain!” a boy’s voice called. More stomping. “Captain?”

“Midshipmen,” Landon said with an eye roll and a smile. “They always walk like elephants – no mind for who’s asleep below.”

“Glad we’ve got that to look forward to,” Little muttered.

“I wouldn’t worry, soldier. I’ll have them broken of the habit by the time we hit open water,” Landon promised, smile widening.

“Captain?” A lad of about fifteen poked his head through the hatch. “There’s a merchant and a navy man here to see you, sir,” he said, looking at the soldiers with unabashed curiosity.

“Tell them I’ll be right up,” Landon said. Turning back to Imran, he held out his forearm to clasp once more. “Work is never done around here,” he apologized.

“Do not tarry for our sake, Captain. We will have much time to speak of our news when the journey begins,” Imran said.

“Very well. Let my men know if there’s anything that you require. Until later, gentlemen.”

“Captain.”

…

Sybina hummed under her breath as she worked, enjoying the still of the early morning. Her handmaids had brought her routine cup of tea to her room in her father’s house before returning to the palace. Most of her belongings had been moved to the suite after the wedding, but she had elected to keep some of her things in her father’s house. She bent to palace a small, locked box into her sea chest, arranging it with care. Some things she could not entrust to others.

Returning to her vanity, she lifted up one of her father’s heavy books to peer at the sheets of vellum pressed beneath. Between them rested two interlocking circlets of dried white flowers. She had been sure to keep the crowns worn on her wedding day, and was happy to see that the Queen’s technique for pressing flowers had worked as promised. She smiled to herself, running a fingertip along the delicate edge of a petal. After so many years of waiting, she was finally Valory’s wife.

“Sybina.”

She was startled by the sound of her name, jumping to face the door. “Father,” she said, “you frightened me.”

“You must take care. Once you leave my house, not all visitors will be friendly,” he cautioned.

“I know that. It’s different in the palace, though. None can enter unbidden save for my husband,” she said, lips turning up in a smile at the very word.

“You are even more infatuated with him than you were before the wedding,” he noted.

“Does that surprise you, father?”

“It is not uncommon for reality to fail to live up to fantasy,” he said. “I had thought you would be frustrated with him by now.”

“He is a busy man, and we have not had much time together – it’s true. That will change,” she replied, gently scooping up the circlets and placing them in her sea chest.

“You must be careful not to fall so hard for the man that it clouds your judgment. He is not yet our ally.”

Sybina met his eyes. “He will be.”

Her surety swayed him, just as it always had. “I hope you’re right. You know that one of my recent projects was stymied when my suit for the Stewardship was rejected.”

“How could you have known that Lord Arden would reappear after all these years?” She shrugged. “It was you who told me that these things happen sometimes. We aren’t simple people, father, else the Lord would not have appeared to us as he has. We’ve known better than to put all of our eggs in a single basket.”

“Be that as it may, you are now our closest tie to power. You are the only one, after Miran’s son, who will have the Regent’s ear. I have done what I can, but the man is stubborn as a mule. Perhaps you will have better luck winning him over: and win him over we must.”

“ _I know, father_.” She said, slipping back into their native tongue. “ _It is my calling._ ”

“ _I am hopeful-proud for it. I had thought I would be sent to Anaphe with you, but that changed when Miran’s son took the Stewardship-office. They think they have more need of me here_.”

“ _You will be a sly-valuable asset to our cause here, father_ ,” she replied.

“ _Yet you will be largely without support in Anaphe. This is why your infatuation-love worries me_.”

She stepped towards the window, looking out at the courtyard below. “ _I am wiser than you give me credit for, father. It is not infatuation-love that I feel, but a more steadfast kind entirely_.” She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “ _Do you think I don’t know the difference, with the steadfast-love-devotion I’ve experienced when speaking with our Lord_?”

“ _I hadn’t meant to imply that, Sybina. I only worry that your soft spot for the Regent may put a chink in your armor_.”

“ _Love is not a weakness, but a strength_ ,” she argued. “ _There is much that I must hide from my husband for the time being, but in this one matter I can be honest; my love for him is sincere and none can doubt it. With time he will return my depth of feeling, and then my position will be one of great power-influence. He is an admirable man, father. He will be a formidable ally_.”

“ _Or a terrible foe, if Illen commands his loyalty to the end._ ”

“ _She won’t_.”

“ _Sybina_ ,” he shook his head, “ _you mustn’t forget that he will become our enemy if your sway-power over him isn’t as strong as you hope_.”

“ _If he does not return my steadfast-love, you mean_.”

“ _Or if he doesn’t do so in time._ ”

She turned back towards the window. “ _If that comes to pass, then it comes to pass. The Lord will guide my hand as he always has_.”

Edmund let out a long sigh. “ _Yes. You are one of his chosen. Do not forget your worth – to our Lord and our people – even if the Regent fails to see it_.” He took a step forward. “ _To that end, there is something I wanted to give to you_.”

“ _Father_?” she turned to see his hand stretched towards her, a gold chain wrapped around his palm. “ _What’s this_?”

“ _It was your mother’s, once. I’ve been holding onto it for a very long time_.”

Sybina took his hands between her own, inspecting the locket that hung from the delicate chain. “ _She wore this_?” she asked, tentative, tracing a finger along the delicate symbol etched into the front of the locket. The symbol itself was innocuous – it meant ‘steadfast’ in the old Dramorian, a word that, when translated, could also mean ‘dauntless’ or even ‘loyal in heart and spirit’. As an heirloom and one of the few things left to her of her mother, none would question her should she wear it.

“ _She wore it every day. It was your great-grandmother’s, passed down before we left Anaphe, to remind your mother of her cause_.” He handed it to her. “ _She remained loyal until her end-day._ ”

“ _What’s inside_?” Sybina asked, attempting to pry the catch of the locket open.

“ _You’ll not succeed in that endeavor; it’s soldered forever-shut._ ”

“ _Why_?”

“ _Your mother once told me that her great-grandmother, the woman who first owned that locket, was the last in her family to make the pilgrimage to Arrynmathár before coming to Anaphe. Knowing that they were leaving for distant shores, she filled her locket with sand from the Holy City_.”

“ _To take her heart’s-home with her wherever she went_ ,” Sybina murmured, comprehension dawning. She shook the locket next to her ear, a delighted smile spreading across her lips as she heard the faint rasping of sand against metal. “ _There’s still some inside_.”

“ _I know that you possess unshakable-devotion, my girl, but Anaphe will try your heart-strength as Armathia has tried mine. I hope this may give you some home-comfort_ ,” he said, taking the locket from her and stepping forward to fasten it about her neck.

“ _Thank you, father_ ,” she said, wrapping her arms around him in a brief squeeze. “ _I’m sure it will. It’s a treasure_.” Toying with the locket’s smooth edges, she added, “ _I won’t be so alone though, will I? There will be others who will aid my cause_.”

“ _Your cousin_ ,” Edmund nodded. “ _Samir and his network-people await your arrival with excitement. Your role will be restricted, but they will be your eyes and ears throughout the city. They will do your bidding_.”

“ _And Samir will gain my husband’s ear in the council chamber while I whisper in it behind closed doors_.”

“ _As you say_.”

“ _I wish for a list of my allies. Before I depart I must study them, to know who will be at my command._ ”

“ _That is well-thought. I’ll have it prepared for you by the evening. You should know, however, that the list will not name many_.”

“ _Is that so? Has so much of Anaphe grown slack in their loyalties_?”

“ _We’ve lost many from our cause over the years_ ,” Edmund replied. “ _Lord Conrad was a large part of that_.”

“ _He caused much difficulty for us during his time_ ,” she mused. “ _It is heart-gladdening that he is no longer in a position to do so_.”

“ _Yet the House of Stewards is not neutralized_.”

“ _As you mentioned before_ ,” Sybina nodded. “ _Lord Arden, however, will not stay long in Anaphe. I was pleased-relieved to hear that_.”

“ _Lord Arden will away, perhaps, but Valory’s men are not weak-trifles. You must take care with them_.”

“ _The crews of_ Windjammer _and_ Rhane _are islanders_ ,” she wrinkled her nose. “ _Sailors, all ignorant-devoted to Ranael_.”

“ _His elite-guard is not much better,_ ” he observed

“ _True. I’ve felt the Empath probing before. He is curious. The tall one seems very Armathian_.”

“ _He’s from the north, near the wet-swamp-lands_.”

“ _Loyal to the crown, then_.”

“ _Very. As for the Dramorian—_ ”

She shook her head. “ _You must not call him that, Father. He is Dramorian no longer._ ”

“ _You speak the heart-truth as always, daughter. He was a man of Oceana long before the King granted him citizenship._ ” Edmund let out a quiet sigh. “ _He was Garo’s son, once_.”

“ _You referred to him as such in the green-plaza-place some months back_. _I had not known that._ ”

Edmund’s lips flattened into a frown. “ _Garo would not recognize him now. He is a traitor to his family. It’s a shame, for there was a time before he turned that I thought he would make an ally_.”

“ _A fortunate thing that you never spoke candidly with him, is it not_?” A shiver ran through her at the thought of her father being found out – at the hands of their former countryman – was nauseating.

“ _Yes, and that is all the more reason you must be careful with your secrets-confidences-orders in Anaphe_ ,” he reminded her. “ _Had I not watched my words, neither of us would be here now_.”

“ _You need not worry, Father. I will take care. This is my calling. I have prepared for it all of my life_.”

Edmund watched her for a long moment, fondness softening his features. “ _Of course you have, my dear girl. Zathár chose you for this task_.” He drew her into a tight embrace. “ _I only wish that I could go with you_.”

“ _Me too_ ,” she said, voice muffled by the fabric of his tunic. “ _I’ll miss you terrible-strong_.”

“ _And I you, little one. Be strong_.” He pulled away, holding her at arms’ length. “ _I’m very proud of you, Sybina. You have brought much deep-joy to me, and much honor to our family_.”

She nodded, blinking against the wetness in her eyes. “ _I will deliver Anaphe to our people, father. I swear it_.”

“ _Good_ ,” he said. “ _I must leave you to your packing now; we have another council regarding the Book_.”

She perked up at that. “ _Any news_?”

He frowned. “ _They are very close to the mark in some respects. I never would have predicted that one of Illen’s priests would get his hands on the original-true text. I shudder to think of how much they have gleaned since our last report on the matter_.”

“ _It surprises me that they can translate it. The Oceanic are poor hands at our mother-tongue_ ,” she said.

“ _Between the Regent’s Steward and Lieutenant, they can read and interpret the old Dramorian. My greatest hope is that they won’t finish the job before the time comes_.”

Sybina’s teeth worried at her lower lip, a faraway look appearing on her face as she directed her attention to the slow, gentle pulse that sat in the back of her thoughts. “ _Our Lord is not yet ready_ ,” she murmured. “ _The journey from the locker drained him. He will need time to grow to righteous power_.”

Edmund let out a slow breath. “ _I hope we will buy him this time_.”

“ _As do I._ ” Her focus sharpened once more. “ _Will you join me in prayer this evening_?”

“ _Of course. It is always an honor-pleasure to do so_. _For now, however, I must go – I fear I am already late for council. I’ll see you at the evening meal._ ”

“ _As always, Father. May your day be blessed_.”

After he left Sybina continued to think over his words, mulling over what the next few weeks would bring as she spun her mother’s locket between her fingers. She felt a renewed sense of clarity and purpose as she always did when speaking on such matters. She was prepared to rise up and serve as she had been born to do. After many long years of waiting, the hour had finally come.

Sybina was determined to do her father proud. His lack of faith in Valory didn’t surprise her, as upsetting as the thought was. He had grown more pessimistic regarding an alliance with the Regent throughout the years, though he hadn’t been willing to write Valory off until Miran’s youngest son had been named Steward. Sybina had noticed when his tone changed. Although she understood her father’s misgivings, she still had faith in her ability to get through to him. She would help him see.

Valory had never spent much time in Armathia – at least, not in her memory – but she had always enjoyed and looked forward to his visits. He was the embodiment of all that she wanted in a husband: principled, intelligent, handsome. Although his patriotism and faith were off-putting at times, she knew that the drive he had to serve could be aimed a much nobler cause – if only she could help him find the way.

Humming under her breath once more, Sybina couldn’t help the thrill of anticipation that took her as her thoughts turned to their upcoming trip to Anaphe. She would spend more time with Valory in the three week journey than she ever had before. More than anything, she hoped for the chance to speak with him uninterrupted – perhaps even to make him laugh unreserved. Her father had warned her that Valory was taciturn – even grim – by nature. She had seen him laugh with his Steward, however, and suspected that he might not be so serious beneath it all. What was a wife if not the one he could relax and share a smile with? Sybina let out a contented sigh. He did not yet know her mettle, but he would come to see it. When he did, he would come to care for her as she did for him, and would soon thereafter see the wisdom in fighting on her side. Despite her father’s pessimism, this she did not doubt. What warm-blooded man would resist the love, devotion, and counsel of his wife?

 _Trust in me, father. I have been preparing for this for many years. It is what I was born to do_. Her husband would be hers, his loyalty would be theirs, and victory would surely follow.

Sybina shut her sea chest with a soft snick and a wide smile. She couldn’t wait.

…

“That’s something else, isn’t it, lad?” Callum asked, admiring the Captain’s star pinned to Arden’s collar.

“I’d say the same thing about much of the last several months,” Arden admitted, a hand brushing over his pendant. “Sometimes it feels unreal.”

“Of all things the Captaincy shouldn’t. You could have left _Windjammer_ for your own command years ago. Ehrin used to ask me why you didn’t, and I’d always tell her to hush, lest she put the idea in your head.”

“I would have been honored to succeed you, you know,” Arden said.

“Nah, lad. That’s talk for another lifetime. You’re where you need to be. Even with all that’s weighing on you these days you look better than you ever did when you were introducing yourself as ‘Jack’,” Callum replied, taking a sip of his beer. “Speaking of, how are things?”

“Alright. Getting better. The sham is wearing on Val, though.”

Callum leveled an incredulous stare at him over the rim of his mug. “Just tough for the Prince, is it?”

Arden shrugged. “He’s the one who has to live it.”

“You’re forgetting how well I know you, lad. You look like a dam ready to burst,” Callum admonished. “You’ve got a patient manner about you, but don’t think for a minute I’ve forgotten what you’re like when you lose your temper. I reckon you’d give the Regent a run for his money.”

Arden winced. “Let’s hope we don’t find out.”

“I’ll second that.” Callum glanced down at his pocket watch.

“Am I keeping you?”

“Nah, I’ve got time before I meet Landon for our nightcap.”

“Talking shop?” Arden asked.

“Finalizing our course, yeh, but I’m also meant to hand over our provisioning lists. It’s a nice thing, being reimbursed by the crown.”

“It’s a nice thing working with Landon as well,” Arden added. “We’re lucky he was in our waters. Some of Francis’ other candidates would have been nightmarish.”

“The Admiral did us a good turn this time,” Callum agreed. “I’m well tired of navy Captains coming aboard and trying to run my ship.” He met Arden’s eyes. They both started to laugh.

“I promise I’ll try not to step on your toes. You’ll let me know if I do, won’t you?”

“Not to toot my own horn, but everything you know about sailing you learned from me. I wager you’d be hard pressed to give an order I didn’t agree with. Besides, as long as you’re aboard _Windjammer_ , you’re her Mate.”

“Haven’t hired a new hand yet?” Arden asked.

“It’s not as simple as you think. I haven’t found any looking for work who I like enough. You know how it is; we’re a small crew. We can’t afford a bad apple.”

“You’re not going to promote one of the boys?”

“Why?” Callum took another swig. “In spite of everything, you’re still around. I’ll not bother about it until this commission is done.”

“You’re a far sight less worried than I’d be, if I were in your place,” Arden said.

“Yeh, but you’ve always been the type to lose sleep over things you can’t control.”

 _Well that hit the mark._ “Touché, Cap.”

“Just calling it as I see it, lad.”

Arden glanced up, eye drawn by the movement of Imran’s measured approach. Imran dropped into the chair next to Arden, lighting his pipe with a scowl. “You can’t tell me you’re having ill luck tonight,” Arden said.

Callum snickered. Imran’s frown deepened. Smoke wafted from his nostrils as he spoke. “My luck has been strong since the coronation.”

“And?” Callum prompted.

“And it is almost worse this way,” he replied. “It is useful to know that an honor from the King is all that keeps them from throwing their drinks at me.”

“But it works, doesn’t it?” Callum asked.

Imran grunted. “No. Women wish to speak with me, yet I tire of them.”

“You’re tired of women?” Callum repeated in disbelief.

Imran made a face, turning to Arden. _“I cannot summon the will to converse with the empty-dull-vacant harpies that now claim to find my purported offensiveness ‘endearing-cute-amusing’. My words are endearing not in their own right, but because of the sparkle of the King’s gold that is pinned to my uniform.”_

Though he lapsed into Dramorian, Callum understood the angry gesture at the stripe on his collar. “Women chase titles the way we chase a pair of knockers. Enjoy your fame while it lasts; you’ll not see much skirt in Anaphe.”

Imran took another puff of his pipe, glancing at Arden. _“I think I finally understand the appeal of your preferences.”_

Arden laughed at that, picking up his beer. “You say that now, but I think you’d be singing a different tune once you got face to face with what’s under a bloke’s trousers.”

Imran rolled his eyes. “Forget I said anything. You share Valory’s foul humor.”

“Foul humor? Damn,” Little said, pulling up a chair next to Callum, “I always miss your best ones, Lord Arden. Val swears you’ve got a sailor’s mouth, you know.”

“Speaking of, where is Prince Valory? It’s uncommon to see one of you without the other these days,” Callum said, glancing around the Black Wave.

“Edmund had him and the Princess over for supper, last I heard,” Arden replied, taking a long swallow from his mug. “To my knowledge it wasn’t a social call; several of Edmund’s backers were there as well.”

“Using his daughter to talk politics?” Callum asked.

Arden shrugged. “He’s like that, I’m told: relentlessly interested in bettering his status. Val’s humoring him because of Edmund’s connections in Anaphe.”

“I do not envy Valory right now,” Imran muttered.

“How did you get out of attending?” Little asked.

“I wasn’t invited; I think Edmund took advantage of a night when I was meant to be otherwise engaged.”

“An engagement you clearly opted out of,” Callum noted.

“I told my brother flat-out that I wouldn’t attend. I don’t think he thought I was serious. He’ll be furious, but then, we’re leaving Armathia in less than a week. I couldn’t be arsed,” Arden replied.

“What was it?”

“The debut of some councilor’s daughter. Supper and inane conversation. I’m not grieved to have missed it.”

“That sounds excruciating.” This was Ehrin’s voice. She pressed Arden’s shoulder before taking the seat across from her father.

“I’m sure it would have been; Verne has it in his head that I come to the Black Wave to chase skirts. He wants to see me married. There’s a connection there.”

“And that would stop you from chasing skirts?” Ehrin’s lips twitched into a smile.

“In theory, until succession was established. I suspect he thought tonight’s debutante was a good candidate for such,” Arden said.

“And he can’t figure why you’re uninterested?”

“My brother and I aren’t what you would call close,” Arden murmured.

“Sorry, Jack. You’re sore about that,” Ehrin apologized.

“No, don’t be. I—” Arden broke off mid-sentence as he felt a warm tingle sweep over his shoulders and settle around his ribcage.

“Why in Ranael’s name does that make you grin like a loon?” she asked.

Little rolled his eyes. “Because Val’s here.”

Ehrin turned around, craning her neck to scan the tavern. She searched for a few moments before coming to realize that Arden had _felt_ Valory’s entrance rather than seen it. “You can really tell it’s him from so far away?”

“He’s not that far; probably at the bar,” Arden defended as Little said,

“Gods yeh – the man walks into a room and it’s like getting clobbered upside the head. Don’t look so smug, Lord Arden, yours isn’t much better,” Little groused.

“You can drop the honorific, you know,” Arden replied, ignoring the remark about his signature.

“Habits,” Little shrugged.

When Valory appeared at the table, he was surprised to find Arden already present. “I thought you had an engagement,” he said, shooting Little and Imran a look as they shifted around to vacate the seat to Arden’s left. “Although I can see why you may have opted not to attend.”

“I think we’ve had enough weddings for the time being,” Arden agreed. “You’re early.”

“Yes, well. I can only take politicians in small measures, as it turns out,” he replied, seating himself.

“No surprises here. Did you get to speak to your brother before you were called to dinner?”

“Briefly. He had just received a report from the guardsmen he put on Lester’s tail; no news as of yet, though that doesn’t surprise me.”

“It’ll take some time for him to get over the shock of being caught out,” Arden agreed. “And Edmund?”

“He didn’t have much of import to say. He’s worried for his daughter’s safety, which I can’t grudge. What I _can_ grudge is his desire to talk my ear off regarding his concerns. I had to feign having other business to conduct, else I’d have nodded off at the table.”

“You are both growing careless,” Imran warned.

“I know,” Arden acknowledged. “We’ll be scolded by Verne tomorrow, no doubt.”

“Of all the things I could be scolded for, this is by far the least worrisome,” Valory let out a long sigh. “I need to get out of this city. It’s fogging my mind and driving me to distraction. I miss the sea.”

“ _Windjammer_ has made you into a proper sailor, sir,” Callum grinned.

“She has at that,” Valory admitted. “It’s a shame I cannot sail with her once more.”

“Yet _Rhane_ is a fine vessel,” Callum said, casting a sidelong glance at Arden. “For a navy ship, at least.”

“And Landon a fine Captain,” Valory nodded. “I saw him and his Lieutenants in the street on my way here. Have you had the occasion to run into them, Little?”

“Just Landon, sir.”

“His second is eager to thank you and Miss Ehrin both. He told me that without your help, he might not have made it through Illen’s Arm,” Valory continued.

“There were some right powerful Healers in Bightton as well,” Ehrin demurred. “If he made a quick recovery they’ve just as much to do with it.”

“Good to hear he’s well,” Little added.

“Hopefully we’ll have the chance to invite the officers to sup during passage; I’ll not forget what they did for Kilcoran anytime soon,” Ehrin said.

“I doubt we’ll stop unless it’s deemed necessary,” Arden replied.

“We’d be mighty lucky to have it blow for three straight weeks, even if it _is_ Erár,” she pointed out.

“I’d be happy to accept the invitation in the event of poor weather for sailing,” Valory said, “but Arden is correct: the sooner we get to Anaphe, the better.”

“Far be it from me to wish for bad weather, sir, but it’d be good to have the lads together again,” Little replied. “We’ve not all shared company since Elona.”

“Not even over the holiday?” Arden asked.

Little shrugged. “Someone’s always missing. Usually it’s the two of you, but tonight Lars and Niko are stuck on watch.”

“You say that as though they’re not having a brilliant evening of Ante and dice,” Arden rolled his eyes.

“I just don’t see why it takes the both of them to guard the Commodore – who is, but the way, _chained_ to a beam in the midships hold.”

“Don’t make the mistake of underestimating the Commodore. You may not have seen him fight, but that doesn’t mean he can’t,” Arden replied. “He’d have gone into the navy young, yet with years of combat training already behind him. Belen has been at war with Januz on and off for centuries.”

“Mostly on,” Valory added.

“Until the demon’s intervention, yes – and even now, I don’t think the peace has been made official. That’s what this upcoming tribal council is meant to do. Politics aside, evidence suggests that this is not the Commodore’s first time as a prisoner of war. I think he was captured by the Januzians on at least one prior occasion,” Arden continued.

“And lived to tell the story of it. He must have escaped. The Januzians would not ransom a Prince of Belen,” Imran said.

“You think he fought his way out of a Januzian prison?” Ehrin asked.

“He shirked his captors somehow. I doubt he did so through luck alone. Hence a two-man watch – even if he’s chained to the hold,” Arden finished.

“How do you know he was held prisoner by Januz in the first place?” she wondered. “He says precious little about such things.”

After a beat of silence, Valory relieved Arden of the burden of answering that question, voice flat. “He has been on the board before. When distressed, his mind brought him back to another time, one in which he spoke Januzian.”

“Oh,” she said, looking down at her drink. “Is that like what happens to some after they’ve seen terrible battles?”

“Similar, yes. War can damage minds as well as bodies.”

“And do you think him so damaged?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t call the Commodore ‘damaged’; at least, not as I have come to know it. Whether or not he suffers from those memories, well – you are far more likely to get an answer out of him than I,” Valory replied.

“Short-hair has a soft spot for you, doesn’t he?” Callum mused, giving his daughter a measured look.

“As does everyone I feed, I’ve found,” she ground out, not taking her eyes off of her drink.

“Keep an eye on that man of Belen for me, gents. I don’t trust his motives,” Callum muttered.

“Da,” Ehrin protested.

“I have a feeling we’ll do little other than keep an eye on him for the next few months,” Arden said, shooting Ehrin a look to silence her. “Ehrin knows what she’s about. She’s done a better job of interrogating him than any of us have, Gods know.”

“That wasn’t my . . . Jack?” she trailed off, puzzled.

Arden had gone white, freezing with his mug halfway to his mouth. Valory stiffened next to him, head snapping up towards the entrance, a quiet “ _Well, shit,_ ” escaping his lips.

Ehrin’s hand strayed to the grip of her well-hidden cutlass as Arden half-stood, eyes darting around in search of a quick exit.

“It’s too late, he knows we’re here,” Valory said. Arden slumped back into his chair, defeated.

Ehrin watched wide-eyed as the tavern quieted and the crowd before them parted, making way for a tall, irate man to pass. For a moment all she could register was the fineness of his clothing, picking out the deep blue that peeked out from beneath his long cloak. As he drew nearer, however, she realized how she knew the man.

The High Steward of Armathia was in the Black Wave.

“ _Arden. Bar. Miran_ ,” Verne hissed as he approached the table, palms planting on its surface hard enough to rattle their mugs.

“Sit down, Verne,” Valory commanded.

Verne jumped to obey before freezing, narrowing his eyes. “And what in Fángon’s name are _you_ doing here, my Lord? The two of you, I swear,” he growled.

“Sit,” Valory said, visibly annoyed at having to repeat himself. “You are going to make a scene like this.”

Little snagged a chair for the High Steward. He presented it with a flourish, head bowed low enough to hide his amusement at the sight of Lord Verne in a second-level tavern. Ehrin nearly jumped out of her own chair as she felt breath on the back of her neck.

“Shhh,” Jonah whispered, “budge over. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

Ehrin slid towards Arden, allowing Jonah to perch on the other half of her chair. Across from them Verne finally sat, palms still flattened against the table.

“I hadn’t thought you the type to take a drink in Tavern Row, Verne,” Valory was saying, and it was all Ehrin could do to keep herself from laughing out loud at the Regent’s gall.

“Do not make a mockery of this,” Verne said, fury spilling over every syllable. “Your absences were noted tonight, and speculation over them has already begun. I am here to bring you back to the inner city; this cannot continue.” His gaze slid over to his brother. “Arden, I can scarcely believe you think so little of your station that you would continue visiting this place after the innumerable conversations we have had on the subject.”

“Perhaps you think too highly of your own station, brother, if the very idea of sharing a drink with friends not born to our caste is anathema to you,” Arden snapped.

“Knowing Agatha as you do, I’m sure you can testify that my wife, heavy with my unborn son, would not look kindly upon my association with such ‘ _friends_ ’,” Verne sneered, leveling a heavy stare at Ehrin.

“My Lord,” she squeaked. She inwardly cursed Jonah, whose appearance had shifted her against Arden’s right side. Her irritation with him was short-lived, however.

“Oh no, my Lord,” Jonah said, throwing an arm about her, “you need not worry about this one.”

“Is that so . . .?” Verne narrowed his eyes.

“Jonah, my Lord, of Kilcoran. And yes, that’s most assuredly so: Jack couldn’t handle our Lady of the Galley.”

Ehrin elbowed Jonah in the ribs. Her father made a choking noise, most likely from the effort of not spitting his beer across the table. Arden shut his eyes, tilting his head back as though he was appealing to Illen for aid.

“Jack?” Verne asked. His voice was careful, dangerous.

“Oh,” Jonah said, realizing he had put his foot in it. “Ah, well. That’s what we all called him, my Lord, before we knew.”

“Jack.” Verne’s unvoiced inquiry was addressed at Arden this time.

“It was the name I went by.”

“You left Armathia as ‘Jack’ then, did you?” Something painful lurked in Verne’s tone, in the line of his shoulders, in the hands that were now balled into fists against the rough tabletop.

“No, in faith,” Arden murmured, “at first I had no name. It was Callum who called me ‘Jack’, and I suppose it stuck.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” Arden rubbed the back of his neck, fingertips bumping over the ridges of his scars. “I doubt it. You didn’t know I went to Kilcoran first, did you?”

“Why?” Verne demanded.

“To meet with Master Lawrence, to see whether it was Murdock or I who had the right of it,” Arden snapped. He took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm. He could feel Valory’s eyes on him, blue stare firm, familiar, comforting. “It took us some time to sort through what was happening; second enchantments are uncommon enough without the added complication of how old I was at the time. A handful of years passed before my Elemental talent reached maturation. I lived in Bightton all the while, studying in the temple. I used to sit in that open plaza with the carved columns each afternoon when the others retreated from the midday heat. I could watch the ships in the harbor for hours.”

“You did that the last time we were there,” Valory said.

“I was always fascinated by them,” Arden replied, a small smile turning his lips. “I taught myself everything I could about the art of sailing – what can be learned from books, that is. I knew that any hope I had of finding work at sea rested on my ability to learn to fight, so I took up the bow once more. Lawrence thought it a waste of my mind, but helped to find me a tutor in spite of his protests. When I met Callum and _Windjammer_ I had already spent a few years on the docks doing day work and maintenance. I still looked young enough to get on board as a cabin boy, and took advantage of the experience such trips brought me. I know not why, but Callum saw something more in me. He agreed to take me on and train me.”

Verne – ire at finding them in the Black Wave momentarily forgotten – stared, enraptured, at his little brother. “When was this?”

“Fifteen years ago? A little more?” Arden shrugged. “A long time. Either way, Callum had his stipulations.”

When Verne turned his way, Callum hastened to elaborate. “I told him he had to learn to fight, proper-like, with a cutlass and a knife,” he said, uncomfortable beneath Verne’s unblinking stare. “We took him on a quick charter to the north side of the island to try him out. We were right shocked to find out he could dead reckon and understood how to trim a gaff rig – even if he’d never put it into practice. He was handy with a bow, too, that much we could see, and it’s no mean feat to be a man without a name or a trade yet also able to read and do sums.”

“You never suspected his origins?” Verne asked.

“Not in the way you mean, no. I had him pegged for a runaway, but whose business of mine was it to know who he ran from, or why? We had a bit of a moment when he went to sign our register. For a moment I thought he couldn’t write. When he looked back at me, hesitant-like, I knew he just didn’t know what name to put down. I told him to mark down ‘Jack’, since he was a jack of trades and all. He answered me back, in that accent he never did learn to hide, _‘Does that mean I shan’t be a master of one, then?’_ I nearly laughed, but he was so earnest when he asked . . .”

“What did you say?” Verne was hanging on his every word.

“Well, I asked him, ‘ _Who wants to do but one thing for all their days on Illen’s soil?_ ’ He signed the name and seemed right satisfied with the answer. Then my girl had to go and spoil it by saying, _‘I know what I want to do. I want to fight pirates_.’ Precious child, she was.”

 _“Da_ ,” Ehrin hissed, cheeks coloring.

Verne’s shrewd gaze returned to her once more, unnerving in its similarity to Arden’s. “You’re Callum’s daughter.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You were already on board _Windjammer_ when my brother joined the crew?”

“I was,” she said, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.

“You have no enchantment. You must have been very young,” he mused.

“Nine, I think, my Lord. I know J—Lord Arden was there when I turned ten. I remember the party.”

“You’ve known him most of your life, then,” Verne stated.

“I suppose so, yeh. It’s a bit strange to think of it that way. Up until these past months it would have been difficult to imagine _Windjammer_ without him. You sail with someone for long enough, and they become a part of your family,” she said. At the look on Verne’s face, she was glad she had stopped herself before comparing Arden to a brother; it was clear that the matter of Arden’s disappearance remained a painful one.

It seemed to finally dawn on Verne what Arden did when he escaped to the lower levels on the odd evening. Their table wasn’t a boisterous one, nor was it surrounded by brawling sailors or bawdy women. His younger brother had two families; one he was born to, and one he had made for himself. The Black Wave was a means for him to see that second family – an impulse that the Regent clearly understood and, in part, shared.

In his youth, Verne had always envied the ease with which other knights had found camaraderie and company with one another. He knew himself to be prickly and difficult to know, yet that failed to slake the envy all the same. Now he found himself envious of a different company of fighting men for the friendship they had forged with his brother – friendship he did not know how to emulate.

“Well Arden,” he said, pushing his chair away from the table, “it seems the gossips have done you an undeserved turn. If you think this worth the price of your reputation, I’ll not argue with you any longer.”

“Wait,” Arden said, holding out a hand, “stay. You’ve come this far, haven’t you? I’ll have a barmaid fetch you a beer and the lads can regale you with more embarrassing tales.”

Verne shook his head. “This is not my place,” he murmured. “Goodnight, gentlemen. Miss Ehrin.”

Arden shot Valory a look as Verne disappeared back through the crowd. “Go,” Valory said, nodding towards the entrance.

Arden sprung from his chair, pressing Valory’s shoulder as he hurried past. He chased Verne’s retreating form through the dense crowd. Elbowing his way past soldiers and sailors, he managed to catch his brother as they reached the street.

“Go back inside, Arden; I meant what I said,” Verne didn’t slow his pace as he approached his still-saddled horse.

Arden caught his arm. “I’m glad. Fielding accusations about my supposed debauchery was getting tiring,” he said. “Still, it seems a waste of a trip to send you home so early.”

Verne stopped, turning to regard his brother. “Does it?”

“There’s a tavern on the fourth level – a little one with a green door. It’s favored by merchants and the like, but none will look askance at us. I think I owe you a beer for making it all the way down here,” he continued, “even if it was to deliver a scolding.”

The lines between Verne’s brows eased. “I know of the place.”

“Will I see you there, then?”

Verne hesitated, glancing back towards the Black Wave, then back at Arden. “Yes, alright.” His mouth tightened, lips drawing up in an almost-smile. “You had better make good on that offer of a pint, brother.”

Arden snorted. “If I knew all it took to get you out was the offer of a pint, I’d have done so long before now.”

“Not usually, no; I’m no beggar of favors,” Verne said. “But this time,” he admitted, gesturing sheepishly at his court finery, notably devoid of pockets, “I brought no coin.”

Arden laughed, clapping his brother on the shoulder before turning towards the other end of the street where he had left his own horse. “Alright then, this round’s on me. You’ll have to return the favor next time.”

Verne nodded, swallowing as Arden strode across the street. The _Windjammer_ was set to sail within days; ‘next time’ wouldn’t come until his brother returned to Armathia once more. “Very well,” he murmured, far too soft for Arden to hear, “I look forward to it.”


	6. Chapter 6

_The Season of Peace  
Erár the 18; 2422_

_She was in a snug cabin on a large vessel, tucked into Valory’s arms, drifting between sleep and wakefulness. They had spent the evening in deep discussion, enjoying the luxury of having their meal brought to them in bed. As the conversation had turned to heavier matters, Valory had confessed to harboring doubts over the war Oceana was about to embark upon. Slowly, layer-by-layer, she had refuted the arguments he had against her position until he was left convinced, awed by all that she had shown him, proud and thrilled to have such a woman for a wife._

_Then the attack had come, and they sprang from bed as the walls melted around them. She feared whatever Illen-sent creatures had come for them, but was relieved when her husband pulled her close and ran, bearing her to safety, bearing her up off of the deck and towards the stars—_

_“Sybina.”_

_The dream began to fade. Sybina made a last grab for it, wanting to hold onto that heart-lifting feeling of flying free._

_“Sybina.”_

_“My Lord,” she sighed, letting the dream slip between her fingers as her vision faded to black._

_“Are the human mind’s fancies so much more interesting than my company?”_

_Chastised, her mind shrunk inward. “No, my Lord. I’m sorry. I’m not in my right mind when I dream.”_

_“The child of Eramen appeared in your dream.”_

_“He is my husband, my Lord.”_

_She felt a press at her mind and yielded to it, allowing the cold sliver to probe through her thoughts for the information he sought. She caught a brief vision of Valory in finery – the white-gold tunic he had worn the day of their wedding – and knew that Zathár was sorting through her memories._

_“You have done well, succeeding where your father failed. He is not as strong as you.”_

_“He did what he could, my Lord.”_

_Another vision appeared in her mind, of her approaching a closed door with a small dagger in hand. The door swung open to reveal a large bed, its sleeping occupant sprawled out across the covers, tendrils of his dark hair smoothed across pillows and sheets._

_She recoiled from the image so violently she nearly woke herself, only to feel her mind dragged back down into the dark by Zathár’s firm hand._

_“Do you reject my command?”_

_The tone was dark and dangerous, gathering in her mind in cold pools._

_“I have sworn myself to him—”_

_“You have sworn yourself to me.”_

_She felt a tremor go through her thoughts. “I have. But I don’t want to hurt him, my Lord.”_

_“Human frailty.”_

_She clutched at the cold press at the back of her mind, cradling it close. “Yet you have told me that you see strength in me, my Lord. Let me use my strength. Let me use it to bring this child of Eramen to our side.”_

_“You think much of your ability.”_

_“Would you have spoken to me, my Lord, if I had no ability?”_

_There was a pause, and for a moment she wondered whether or not had pushed too far. Just as she began to contemplate waking herself, she received her reply._

_“You have until the march on Anaphe.”_

_Relief washed through her. “Thank you my Lord, thank you—”_

_“Sybina.”_

_“My Lord?”_

_A series of terrible images flashed before her mind’s eye, full of vile creatures and displays of fathomless power. “Do not disappoint me.”_

She awoke with a gasp, sitting upright in bed. She turned and was unsurprised to see the other half of the bed empty; Valory had left sometime earlier. Though his hesitance to stay bothered her, it was a boon on this occasion; she had a talent for dissembling but hated using it upon her husband. She was glad to not have to explain herself.

A look at the window confirmed that it was just before dawn, the sky lightening to a grey blue on the horizon. She would get no more sleep that night, and as such, figured that she might as well start her day. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed she aimed for her slippers, knowing that the tile floors would be unpleasantly cool to the touch.

There remained enough light by which to navigate, so she was able to locate the candle that sat upon her vanity with relative ease. She considered attempting to light it with her enchantment for a moment, but figured it for blasphemy of the highest order to do so immediately after speaking to her Lord. She struck a match instead, letting out a happy sigh as her bedchamber was bathed in the flame’s soothing glow.

She plucked her favorite fur-lined cloak out of her wardrobe, wrapping herself in it before sinking down into her favorite chair. She tried not to mull over her vision. Ever since Zathár had first spoken to her –mere months after reaching her majority – she had come to realize that puzzling over his words upon waking only drove a line of anxious, fruitless thought. Better to wait until she had said her morning prayers and felt a bit less wooly-headed.

She tried to remember the details of her dream instead, unable to capture much besides the feeling of utter contentment it had brought. Basking in that feeling, she let her mind drift and wander, thinking through hopes and dreams and fears for her ever-approaching departure. She sat there for some time, rubbing her mother’s locket between her fingertips, until the sun was well over the horizon and the birds had begun their morning songs.

…

The day of departure dawned cool and clear, azure sky brilliant and cloudless. The energy in the plaza was expectant; the crowd within the inner city gates had steadily swelled over the course of the hour, jockeying for the best position from which to see the coming procession. With speeches through and rites read, the officers of _Windjammer_ and _Rhane_ made ready for their descent through the city.

Farewells were said on the steps of the cathedral where the King turned to his Regent, dropping his voice to the familiar tone used between brothers.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, clasping Valory’s arm.

Valory cocked a brow. “I should say the same. It seems to me that you’ve been the one getting yourself into trouble these days.”

A smile flitted across Siath’s features. “All for your sake, Val. Mother has always insisted that we share.”

Valory grinned. “Well, far be it from me to hog it all. Wouldn’t want to get a scolding.”

As they bantered, each reluctant to say the final words of parting, Arden approached his father to clasp arms. Expecting the perfunctory, customary words that he had received before Elona, he was surprised to hear Miran say,

“Fare well on your mission. Armathia awaits your return.”

He stared at his father for a long moment, scrambling for footing. Miran’s face was impassive, betraying no hint at his thoughts. “It’s good to hear that,” he said, “if unexpected.”

“That may well be due to the reception you received upon your last return,” Miran admitted, halting. “My reaction was not appropriate.”

Arden opened and shut his mouth, discarding a slew of replies before deciding upon, “That is already past.”

Miran’s frown deepened. “I misjudged you. That remains.”

Arden gaped, stunned speechless. He was spared the task of formulating a reply by Valory, who had finished bidding farewell to his family. His dislike of goodbyes was plain; he had no desire to tarry. “It’s time,” he said, indicating the men waiting for them in the plaza. Arden wondered whether or not he had heard the exchange; he hoped that someone had, else he was afraid he’d wake on the morrow convinced he had imagined his father’s kindness.

Miran reached out before they could turn, arm extended for Arden to clasp. “May the wind be at your back.” It was the first time his father had honored him with such words.

“And at yours.”

He pressed his father’s arm once, briefly, before turning to follow Valory down the cathedral steps. He longed to say something, to solicit an opinion, to have Valory help him make sense of his father’s words – but Valory’s mind was already miles away. His thoughts had flown to the reality of their departure, eyes resting upon the mounted company in the center of the plaza, Sybina among them. Arden swallowed. For all of the conviction with which they had demonstrated their loyalty to one another, their missions remained unaltered and their separation assured. The situation was a tangled mess, but they had not discussed it since Verne’s day. There was too much to say, yet Arden could find no words to speak.

Lost in his ruminations, Arden mechanically mounted his horse. He held back on the reins to leave Sybina the spot at Valory’s side. He knew he would be poor company that morning; as such he preferred to keep to himself.

The details of the procession held no interest for Arden. His mind wandered as they descended through the crowded city levels, considering all manner of thoughts and puzzles, all crafted as a distraction. _I wonder how many are in the street this morn. Perhaps there is a way to calculate it._

He lifted his eyes to the horizon, taking a long moment to observe the sun, the sky, and the ships down in the harbor. _With clouds streaking in rows on the horizon as they are, we’ll have a strong southerly wind. Best start on a port tack._ His eyes rested on Landon’s back. _I wonder whether Rhane can haul close to the wind, or if she’ll be forced to fall off to a reach._

He glanced at Sybina, who rode at Valory’s side. _I wonder how she will fare her first time shipboard._ Jealousy stole through him. _Watch will be lonesome these days._

The gathered crowds showered them with flowers: petals thrown by well-wishers and daisy chains handed up by smiling children and blushing young women. Arden felt a tug on his stirrup and turned, surprised, to see who sought to wish him well. He smiled when he saw Agatha’s maidservants waving and lifting up a chain of flowers and trinkets; he hadn’t thought he would be receiving any gifts that morning. Bending low to take the proffered garland, he pressed Alessia’s hand in thanks. He draped the garland over his pommel, toying with the twisted ends of a shiny blue ribbon. The color indicated that the trinket was meant to bring him safe passage over Ranael’s domain. He didn’t know whether he believed in such charms, but figured he could use all of the luck he could get.

As they passed into the lower levels, many of the well-wishers who came forward brought brightly painted shells to the passing sailors. A wistful smile spread across Arden’s face. Shells were given by admirers; the declaration was not meant lightly, and so it wasn’t a gift he was liable to receive. Watching the surprised pleasure cross some of the sailors’ features was enough for him, however – particularly when he saw Imran pull up short at the approach of a pretty, dark-skinned woman. Arden recognized her as one of the daughters of the matron of the Black Wave. He laughed aloud at the expression of absolute shock Imran wore as he took the proffered shell.

“Come home safe, Lieutenant,” she said. At Imran’s stunned silence she flashed a smile, reaching up to rub at the crest stamped into the leather of his saddle – another gesture of goodwill and good luck. “Cat got your sharp tongue?”

Arden laughed again as he passed, letting Imran have his goodbye without an audience. Some minutes later Imran caught up with him, a slight flush to his pale complexion.

“I think you’re hereby disallowed from complaining about Armathian women,” he said as Imran studied the carefully painted shell.

“She is fine-looking,” Imran admitted.

“Tell me you didn’t say that to her.”

Imran frowned. “I did. It was meant to be kind.”

“ _Beautiful_ , Imran – try that for a compliment. It’s not an exaggeration, either.”

“It’s not,” he agreed, “but she did not take offense. She laughed and pressed my hand, and told me to try harder next time.”

“Oh, I _like_ her,” Arden grinned.

Imran twisted around in his saddle, craning his neck to get one last look. “Yes,” he replied, sounding surprised by his answer, “so do I.”

They made for the docks, following Valory’s lead at the head of the column. Imran’s shell sat upon his pommel for all of a minute before the others noticed and began to tease him for it. His spluttering replies to Little’s constant stream of wisecracks kept Arden smiling, kept the strain of their imminent departure from showing in his features.

Would he return as a hero, restoring an age old alliance to the Eastern World, or would he be regarded as a failure?

Would he even return at all?

Dread swelled within him as they emerged onto the docks. _Windjammer_ and _Rhane_ stood at the ready, gangways out and crew at attention at the rails. Dismounting, Arden expected Valory to be the first aboard. He was surprised to see Landon escorting Sybina, trailed by Imran, Gabe, Little, and _Rhane_ ’s officers.

Valory alone remained on the dock, standing at easy parade rest, waiting for Arden to make his approach.

“My Lord,” Arden said, moving to execute a precise bow.

“Steward-mine.” Valory’s voice was quiet. Above and behind his shoulder, Arden could see Sybina and Landon watching them from the quarterdeck.

“May the _Rhane_ bring you safe passage over Ranael’s waters, my Lord.” Arden held out his arm, clenching his teeth to keep from saying something he would later regret.

Valory nodded. “Ranael willing, _Windjammer_ will do the same. May the wind be at your back.”

Arden envied Valory’s composure, feeling a prickle of irrational anger that he could make the separation they had dreaded seem so easy to bear. Callum would tell him not to get worked up over things he could not change, but he couldn’t help himself: the whole thing damn well _hurt_.

“And at yours, my Lord.”

Valory clasped his arm with a bowed head. The grip was firm but brief; brief enough that none but Arden would have seen his thumb press at the leather that covered Arden’s wrist, nor would they have heard his answering near-whisper—

“Be safe.”

Arden blinked a few times, quickly, before dropping his arm to his side. He hated that he couldn’t say anything in reply – not here, not today. Valory lifted his head, locking eyes for a long moment. _You too, Val_. He hoped Valory understood.

Valory’s lips thinned. He gave Arden one last grim nod before turning to salute Callum. That done he spun away, making for the _Rhane_ with slow, measured strides.

Arden swallowed convulsively, forcing himself to move. With careful nonchalance he approached _Windjammer_ ’s gangway. He was ever-grateful that his voice remained steady as he asked Callum for permission to board.

His crew welcomed him with broad smiles and hearty slaps on the back, unfazed by the silver stamped insignia on his breastplate that shouted his station at any who cared to look. He took a deep breath as he mounted the quarterdeck steps and made for the helm. Callum met him there.

“Well lad,” he said, eyeing the Captain’s star on Arden’s collar, “ _Windjammer_ may be my ship, but with half of your city watching, I reckon this is your show.”

“Thank you,” Arden murmured, hand coming up to caress a spoke of the helm. Looking up from the wheel he squared his shoulders, raised his voice, and began issuing orders. “Alright gents, let’s loose the bow and after-leading spring; I want her trimmed for a close haul, port tack. Let’s see how well _Rhane_ can chase the wind.”

With an enthusiastic, unanimous “Aye!” his crew jumped to carry out the orders, calling back to him as each was completed. _Windjammer_ began to turn off the dock as her lines were slipped, straining against the last of them with an audible creak. Behind the helm Callum let out the main sheet, holding it on the cleat as Arden turned off the wind. The final lines were slipped, her sails filled, and she pushed forward, slowly at first but building gradual speed. Arden let her run parallel to the dock for a few hundred feet to build momentum before rounding up. Ever at the ready, his crew took up all the slack the sheets would give them. They settled into their course as _Rhane_ dropped lines behind them, sailors hustling to bring the much-larger brig about.

Arden felt a hand land on his shoulder. Finished with the main sheet, Callum had come to stand beside him. Arden made to offer him the helm, but Callum shook his head with a mute smile, eyes dropping to the star on Arden’s collar.

“May Ranael bless our journey, then,” Arden murmured, repeating the words that Callum so often said at the very beginning of a long passage.

Callum’s smile broadened. “He’s never done us a wrong turn, has he?” He looked up at the lighthouse that marked the rocky tip of the Armathian peninsula, warning sailors of the shoals that lay to the north. It was the last bit of Armathia they would see until they returned from the West. “Take us out, then; to Anaphe we go.”

Arden nodded, getting a feel for the wind, falling back into the familiar rhythm of standing at _Windjammer_ ’s helm. They made for the mouth of the bay, empty miles of sea stretching long before them. “To Anaphe,” he agreed, “and the waters beyond.”

…

_The first waxing month: 25, 1_

Obed breathed a sigh of relief as he finished with the tedious task of preparing that month’s accounts. He paused before the corridor that would take him to his Lord and Master, tempted to traverse its length but unwilling to interrupt his brother’s audience. Turning away from the corridor he moved to stand instead before the ornate altar that at the center of the sacred temple, reveling in the splendor of its carvings. Glancing back towards the doorway, he estimated the hour based on the angle of the sun. He had time before his next obligation; time enough to devote a few moments to worship. He lowered himself to the ground.

Obed kept his eyes trained down, resolving not to shift or flinch as the rock beneath him bit into his knees. It was a daily battle – a test of his will – and had been for years since his joints had first begun to ache. He welcomed such tests. There was not a crack, creak, or protest that could keep him from his duty.

He bent low, prostrating himself, forehead touching the warm stone floor of the altar. He had been born with a gift; that much had become clear as time ran by. It was wasted if he could not devote himself in prayer. Bursting at the brim with renewed fervor after the previous evening’s audience with his Lord and Master, he could hardly contain the hymns and recitations that fought to escape his throat. It was only the untimely interruption of a lesser priest that held his homily in check.

He rose up to his knees once more as the priest’s soft voice brought him back from the ecstasy of prayer. “ _Our Lord’s humble servant Alvar son of Garo is here to see you_.”

Obed began the slow struggle to his feet, pain firing like hot pins in his knees. The priest hastened to support his weight, throwing an arm around his ribs and pulling him to his feet. These small mercies had once been a blow to his vanity. Ever since his Lord’s return, however, such hurts had begun to seem inconsequential.

Alvar stood at the door in full uniform, unwilling to enter the sacred space without permission. Were it not for the studded leather cowl that protected his neck and signaled his rank, his quilted armor would have caused him to blend in with the carven wall beside him. He wore an expression of mild discomfort. Obed figured the location rather than the attire to be the cause of it; Alvar was used to wearing the heavy cowl in even the most oppressive heat. Obed often wondered whether his brother feared to look upon their Lord, from whose chambers he had just returned.

 _Not any more than is necessary at least_ , he corrected himself. The alternative was unthinkable.

“ _You bring news from our Lord_?” he asked without preamble, sweeping out of the room to join his brother on their routine circuit around the grounds. Their chosen courtyard boasted arched, open-air hallways that attracted a pleasant breeze.

Alvar’s jerky nod was interrupted by the cowl. “ _I knew those shorthaired fools would be good for nothing_ ,” he said without preamble, scowl pulling at the line of his lip.

“ _What has come to pass_?” His voice was sharper than intended.

“ _Our man has been in touch. The campaign East has failed as we feared_.”

“ _Is that why we have lost contact with the fish-man King_?” Obed asked.

“ _The fish-man King is dead_ ,” Alvar replied. “ _The minds he held are no longer ours to touch_.”

“ _Why did we not hear of this sooner_?”

“ _Our man’s ability for contact comes and goes. Only early this morning was he able to dream-speak with our Lord once more._ ”

“ _And the girl_?” Obed wondered.

“ _He spoke with her some nights past. She remains steadfast. Some call her a prophetess, you know_.”

“ _And perhaps she is. She is the other that our Lord spoke to and drew strength from, in the days before he made his escape from the locker_.” They each bowed their heads in gratitude. “ _What else did you learn? Any news of the fish-men?_ ”

Alvar’s jaw tightened. _“Their King left no heirs. They are in disarray_.”

 “ _That is ill news_ ,” Obed frowned. “ _Our Lord tasked him with the elimination of Eramen’s heirs. Did he die with true-honor, at least, or is his task yet undone_?”

“ _He has failed. Oceana has a new King upon its throne and the brother still lives_.” Alvar spat these words out as though he couldn’t abide their taste.

“ _Yet we have done damage_ ,” Obed pointed out. “ _We must have_.”

“ _Some, perhaps, but not enough. Januz did not prepare as they should have; their efforts did not spread from the city. They gave weak-quarter, thinking to interrogate their captives and break morale. They did not consider that aid would come so soon_ ,” Alvar scoffed. “ _Idiots. It was a mistake to leave the invasion of the isles in their hands_.”

“ _Belen did not fare much better_ ,” Obed mused.

“ _No, and it was their leader who failed: the very man whose righteous-strength our Lord admired_.”

Obed rounded on his brother. “ _Do not speak thus. Do not doubt the wisdom of our Lord_.”

“ _That was not my intent_.” Alvar’s words were immediate, contrite. “ _I meant only to illustrate how quickly the Oceanic mindset can corrupt_.” His eyes darkened. “ _As such, I was told one more thing. When Elona fell to the force from Armathia, the Januzian officers saw a man they thought to be Dramorian leading the invasion_.”

Those words drew Obed’s undivided attention. “ _Did they describe him_?”

“ _He carried himself as one of us, they said, and though he spoke Oceanic it was with a heavy accent. He fought with the twin blades, and they said that he was competent_.”

“ _Did they give a name_?” Obed pressed.

“ _No, but they said he wore an idol of Arrar around his neck_ ,” Alvar completed. “ _He was not some half-blood from a border town_.”

“ _No_ ,” Obed agreed, casting his eyes up at the sky. “ _He fought for Oceana_?”

“ _For the brother of the King, they said; one of his own elite-guard_.”

“ _Do you think it’s him_?” Obed asked.

“ _It must be_ ,” Alvar insisted, gravel in his voice. “ _We long thought he had been found out, did we not? It seems we were wrong. Our brother is a traitor_.”

“ _I remember the first time he returned from the East. They fed him some ridiculous notions. He was weak enough to believe them_ ,” Obed lamented. “ _He should not have been sent. We should have known that they would try to paint their villainous-false-gods in a positive light. We should have known he would be sympathetic to such stories_.”

“ _He always turned an ear to a tale of woe_.”

Obed nodded, remembering how opposed their younger brother had been to the suppression of the rural settlements that would not bow to Zathár. It had seemed a sort of youthful pacifism at the time. They should have known it was the seed of something much darker. “ _So he turned to them, and now fights on their side_.”

“ _They say he was instrumental in the fall of Elona_ ,” Alvar replied.

“ _It grieves me to hear that he has reached his potential only in the hands of our enemy_ ,” Obed murmured. “ _He was so bright_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Alvar agreed, “ _but this changes nothing. Imran is still dead to us, even now. We cannot let him stand between us and the justice we seek_.”

“ _I will pray for him. If he mends his ways, our Lord may yet have mercy. If he does not . . ._ ”

“ _We have our orders_.”

“ _We do_ ,” Obed said, halting at the balustrade at the end of a long hallway. Beyond them lay the city, its occupants bustling in preparation for war. And further still . . .

“ _I am to march before the day’s end_ ,” Alvar said. “ _We were thwarted in the first strike; we cannot let that stand_.”

“ _We have not yet reached the full extent of our power_ ,” Obed reminded him. “ _We were focused upon future battles and the inevitability of our victory. It cost us. We have underestimated the Oceanic. They are not weak, and our Lord has not yet mustered the righteous-strength to rise from his throne_.”

“ _He is weak from confinement_ ,” Alvar nodded.

Obed blanched. “ _Do not say that. He is not weak – not our Lord—_ ”

Alvar stopped the torrent of words with the wave of a hand. “ _It was not a criticism of your call, brother. Your call was more powerful than the words of a thousand men before you – enough so that our Lord drew upon your strength to break free from his bonds_.”

“ _Yet perhaps it was not enough, if still he cannot march with your company_ ,” Obed murmured.

“ _You would break yourself by giving him more_ ,” Alvar argued, sharp eyes sweeping over his brother’s weakened frame.

Obed knew what Alvar wanted to say but dared not voice aloud. He looked away.

“ _His time has not yet come, but come it will_ ,” Alvar continued. “ _Patience, brother_.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Obed sighed. “ _Yet we have passed midwinter and the power of the Oceanic gods will now wax until the longest day_.”

“ _Then we must wait until after midsummer to make our final strike_ ,” Alvar said. “ _Before then we have much to prepare; we must have the peninsula, to take back what Oceana has stolen from us_.”

“ _With or without the help of the shorthaired_ ,” Obed agreed.

“ _The Western clans may yet prove useful for us. We have been granted passage through their lands, and their armies will flesh out our numbers when we march on Anaphe_ ,” Alvar said.

“ _You learned this during your audience_?”

“ _It is what our Lord expects_ ,” Alvar nodded. “ _Yet he is unconcerned, and I suppose I can understand why; the Western armies are rendered irrelevant when compared with our other dark-allies_.” He nodded towards the horizon where a long, dark gash split the ground. “ _The Oceanic may not be weak, as you said, but naught can compare to our Lord’s armies_.”

Beyond the city gates Obed could see shapes moving, creatures clawing their way out from the depths of the chasm. “ _Yes_ ,” he agreed. “ _You will march with our Lord’s dark-armies at your command. Anaphe’s fortifications will come to naught in the face of such might_.”

“ _Our Lord willing_ ,” Alvar replied, joining his brother at the balustrade.

Together they watched the armies assemble in the distance, climbing from the chasm to form ranks. They moved eastward: a long trailing procession of hundreds upon hundreds of men, twisted on the outside as they once were on the inside. Herded by Alvar’s Lieutenants who galloped around them on the backs of ancient beasts, they trod together in step.

“ _May your mission be blessed_ ,” Obed said, clasping his brother’s hands between his own.

“ _I will return the victor_ ,” Alvar promised. They stood together for another long moment, looking one another in the eye.

The blast of a horn could be heard from the city gates. It was time to depart.

With one last press of his brother’s hands, Alvar turned to descend through the temple and out to the city streets. He would make for the gates on his mount – a terrible and magnificent creature – to join his Lieutenants at the head of the procession. They would turn their armies towards the mountains, the territories, and the peninsula beyond. Oceana and its allies would fall before their might.

It was the beginning of a new age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, concrit is welcome.  
> Seriously though, I would really appreciate it if anyone wanted to drop me a line to share their thoughts on this guy and 'A Flash of Gold and Fire' -- sometimes I feel like I'm so involved in them that I can't see the forest for the trees, if you know what I mean.
> 
> Anyway, more coming soon!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read, kudos'd, bookmarked, and commented. Nothing lights a fire under my writing butt more than feedback: you are appreciated.

_The Season of Peace  
Erár the 23; 2422_

“You’re cheating.”

Félix looked up in mock-outrage as he shuffled the deck with slick ease. “You are bad at cards,” he replied, lips quirking at the playful arm-slap he earned.

“I’ve always held my own,” she defended, frowning down at her new hand as Félix dealt.

“Were they letting you win? That is kind of them,” he teased.

“You’ll see. I reckon I’ll whip you this time,” she said, fanning her cards out between her hands.

“ _It must be nice to have such a vivid imagination_.” The arm-slap was delayed this time, coming only after Ehrin translated the phrase.

He tried not to examine the ease of their companionship, fearing at times that it came at the expense of his mission. He had thought that his alliance with Zathár would have been too much for Ehrin to bear, yet the opposite seemed to hold true. Rather than shunning him, she had begun to shift the blame for Illen’s Arm and Elona off of his shoulders and onto the demon’s. Although they avoided the subject of the Reckoning with alacrity, on the occasions that it did come up, she had begun to regard him with a considerable amount of pity: as though he was an insect trapped in a web that he could not see. The pity infuriated him, but he hesitantly admitted to himself that he preferred it over the silent rage she had displayed when she had held him solely responsible for the invasion of the isles.

He discarded, watching her eyes narrow at him over the fan of cards. The impulse to smile nagged at him. It wasn’t that he was dour by any means – not in Belen, at least – but he tended to keep his own counsel. At home his reputation was that of a firebrand and a radical, not that of a jovial dinner guest. He had been surprised to realize that Ehrin’s rather silly sense of humor was not lost on him. As such, he found himself making a face back at her over the tops of his own cards.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you your face could get stuck like that?” she asked, snatching up what he had discarded.

 _Collecting eights then, is she?_ “Often. I told her I was glad. It would make my face more interesting.”

“She must have been thrilled to hear it.”

“ _According to her I started in with the snide remarks from the moment I could give voice to my thoughts._ ”

“Well that explains a lot,” Ehrin snorted. “You’re lucky. My Ma used to give me a swat to the back of the head in return for my cheek.”

“There were times I stretched her patience too thin,” Félix admitted. “Now she is used to my ways.”

“Your mother is still alive?” She frowned at her hand. She was certain that Félix had another eight, but he wasn’t giving it up.

“My father as well.”

“I thought your brother had succeeded him already?”

“We do not do things as you do in Oceana. _My people are all warriors. A leader who cannot take his place in battle is one the people will not follow. The time came for him to step down, and so he did: lest Januz take it as an invitation to press our borders, or another family take it as invitation to usurp our rule._ ”

“Your father must have been a great warrior in his time,” Ehrin mused, fascinated by more stories from Félix’s homeland.

“He was,” Félix agreed. “He fought many battles with the other tribes.”

“You have as well, haven’t you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And your brother?”

He paused, hand halfway to the deck of cards that sat between them. “I have more than one brother.”

“How many?”

“Th—two,” he said, eyes flicking away from her.

Ehrin had heard his stutter. “How old?”

“Younger. Not by much; the elder is thirty this year.”

“Was he the one who succeeded your father?”

“Yes. Olivier.”

“What does the other do?” she asked.

“He is a diplomat. He lives in Dramor.”

“You don’t see him often, then?”

“No.”

“What about Olivier?” She cocked her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what his title is.”

“There is no Oceanic word. ‘Lord’ is close. ‘Prince’ is also suitable.”

“Are you close with him?”

“No.” Félix drew a card. “That is not the way in Belen.”

Ehrin knew that she was prying, but couldn’t contain her questions. “Once you mentioned that your father might have cause to regret that Olivier took his place. Why?”

Félix discarded. “The reasons are many.” Ehrin’s stubborn silence bade him elaborate. “ _My politics do not seem so radical these days; and up until this debacle in the isles, I was also the more decorated military commander._ ”

“From time spent in Januz?”

“ _And elsewhere. All of the states can be accessed by river. I have spent much time in all of them, and am not particularly well-liked._ ”

She caught the irony in his voice. “You mean you’ve been imprisoned in all of them?”

“ _I’ve been the man doing the imprisoning for the most part, but yes, I have been captured a handful of times. Olivier’s claim was built upon that. He thinks I could not represent Belen at the tribal council because of certain . . . grudges._ ”

“Is he right?” Ehrin asked.

“ _I suppose so. I’m not holding any. I may have received an inhospitable welcome or two during past campaigns, but that is the way of things when you are a military man. It is the others who have a quarrel with me, and not even those who have been in my brig. Some of my former jailors have made it personal._ ”

“How so?” she asked, realizing that Félix was speaking about his experience with torture: one that the Regent had alluded to the last time they had spoken.

“ _Men who work the board are all the same. The occupation draws a certain kind, and it’s a kind that thrives on the crumbling of another’s spirit._ ”

“Do you think us like that?” she murmured.

“You Oceanic are not special. Some of you are monsters.” He blew out a breath, finally discarding the other eight he had been holding. Ehrin snapped it up. “ _Your Prince drew no joy from it, however. He is a true warrior; I will not contest that. The other one, his Steward, is as well._ ”

Ehrin nodded, processing the words. She knew he spoke slowly for her sake, but struggled nevertheless. “Does your family think you unfit for politics because you’ve met these men in wartime? Do they fear that you would seek retribution?”

“ _Not I, even if I do hold them in contempt. On the contrary, it is they who become enraged at the sight of me, thus I have not been to the tribal council in years. The council is a time of enforced peacemaking, yes – but it often ends in conflict._ ”

“They’re angry that you escaped? Did you make them look foolish for it?” she asked.

“ _They look foolish because they had me, but could not stop me. I have won victories not a season after escaping from their cells.”_

Comprehension dawned. “You didn’t act as a captive does with them, either, I’d wager – especially not one who has been . . .” she hesitated, “. . . treated ill. Gods know I was annoyed by your spite in the beginning – all piss and vinegar, as Da says. Men like the ones you describe take such defiance as a challenge, don’t they?”

“A challenge. Yes, that is what they saw.”

“So did those Armathian guardsmen,” Ehrin said, face clouded. “They wanted to break your spirit.”

Félix’s eyes narrowed. “My spirit does not break.”

“So what then, your father passed you over for having a strong spirit?” she asked, incredulous.

“There is a better word for that, in Oceanic,” he remarked, drawing another card.

“Stubborn,” she agreed. “Mule-headed with radical politics, a ridiculous temper, and a bit of a silver tongue in your own dialect. Alright, I’m beginning to see your father’s case.”

“Hm,” Félix grunted, lips threatening to turn up into a smile at her blunt assessment.

“Clearly none of that has changed, so why the regret – on his part, if not on yours?” she wondered.

“ _Flattery is not your strong suit._ ”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is a story for another time. Let us leave it at that – unless you wish to volunteer stories of your own in exchange.”

Ehrin shrugged. She knew that she was treading on sensitive ground and decided to let the matter lie. “Nothing to tell, really. I was the only child born to my parents. That’s about all there is to it.”

“You have no other family?” he asked, surprised that she had taken up his suggestion.

“I have some cousins on Kilcoran, but with all the time away I can’t say that I know them very well.”

“They do not understand this, do they?” he asked, gesturing around the hold.

“Does anyone who lives a landlocked life understand? They try, bless their hearts, but they all live in Bightton.”

“Is your mother there?”

“Ma passed when I was young,” she replied.

“ _May she be taken by the river_.” He bowed his head, curls falling forward over his eyes.

“What?” she asked.

“It is a saying. It is how we give respect to the dead. I did not mean to speak of such things. I did not know,” he said.

“It’s alright – it was long ago.”

“That is how you became a sailor.”

“Well, yes. I started off as a cabin ‘boy’ and a cook, then learned the rest as I went along.” She discarded once more.

“ _And the doctoring? Where did you learn such a thing?_ ” He couldn’t help his curiosity.

“Healing talents are common enough. Before J—Lord Arden was promoted, we had a mate who doubled as our ship’s surgeon. He taught me as much as he could, but it’s hard without an enchantment.”

“ _Yet I heard that you took off a man’s leg, that he might live,_ ” Félix said, studying her over the tops of his cards.

“I had some help from Little.” At Félix’s look, she said, “Alright, yeh, I’ve learned how to do things like that; one does what one needs must, and all.”

“You don’t speak of it?”

“No, I suppose I don’t.” She looked up, and expression of wry amusement on her face. “Honestly? I don’t like the thought of it unless I’m in the thick of it.”

“But—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “It makes no sense. But I haven’t got a stomach of iron like some. Looking at the gory diagrams in Healers’ books turns my belly. I guess when it’s the real thing, there’s no time to feel sick over it. Then later on I’ll be cleaning up all the rags and tools and such and gagging.”

“Yet you kill, as well.”

“I do. What of it?” she eyed him warily.

“That does not make you ill?”

“The witches did, somewhat – they were disgusting, and stank of rotten fish. As for the others . . .” she trailed off. “I don’t know what to say, really. I don’t feel good, I don’t feel bad. I did what I had to do.”

“Hm.” Félix tilted his head, considering.

“I know what you’re trying to say, and you’re wrong.”

“We do what we must. It is clear you understand this,” he said.

“Don’t start with me on Zathár,” Ehrin snapped, hearing the double-meaning with which his words were laced. “I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt more often than not, Félix; I know the season you spent in the isles is a part of your efforts to do the right thing. Sometimes the end can explain the means, even if the means are hateful – but nothing justifies the worship of a demon.”

“Do you think me Dramorian?” he asked. “I do not give worship to that creature. It is an alliance: one of mutual benefit.”

“That’s almost worse,” she said. “I don’t know what I can say to make you _see_. It’s the right reasons, but the wrong path.”

“ _Do the reasons make a difference?_ ” he asked.

“Of course they do! D’you think for a minute that I’d be down here playing cards with you if you attacked my homeland out of avarice?”

“How do you know I didn’t?”

She met his eyes. “Because like it or not, after these long months I _know_ you, Félix. You set this in motion because it was the only way for you to do what you felt was right.”

“That has not changed.”

She shook her head. “It has and you know it. You know why we’re headed to Zaránd. You can fix this. In the meantime, I don’t want to dance around the topic with you again. And don’t you _dare_ imply that our actions are comparable.”

He gave her a measured look. “You are as stubborn as I in your beliefs. In all aspects.”

She drew another card, staring at it for a few long moments. “Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?”

“ _One of us will be proven wrong over these next months._ ”

She discarded. “Not I. The only thing I wonder over is whether or not my hope for you is badly misplaced.”

Félix snapped up the card she had put down, long fingers slipping it in with his hand. “Why hope at all?” he asked. She shook her head mutely as he laid his cards down on the beam between them.

“Well,” she said, ignoring his query, “it seems you’ve stomped me again.”

He flashed a smile at her. “You need more practice.”

“What I need,” she said, “is rest. Two-team watches aren’t easy.”

“You need a sixth crewmember,” he observed.

“That’s the least of my worries.” She scooped up the detritus of their meal, sorting the plates into stacks. As she moved to the companionway, Félix added,

“ _May your dreams be carried in the arms of the river_.”

She paused, working out the sentence – something about dreams and rivers and sleeping well. “Yeh, Félix,” she said, “same to you.”

She climbed out of the hold, breeze ruffling the flyaway hairs that escaped from her plait. She shut her eyes, tilting her head back and taking a moment to let the breeze soothe her. She wished it could calm her scattered thoughts.

 _Félix_. Arden had been right to caution her months earlier when he first noticed her soft spot for the Commodore. She had thought his worry silly at the time; Félix had seemed strange and alien to her – fascinating, but no more. Over the months, however, something about his conviction had swayed her. The change had come as she began to realize how hard he had fought – and how much he had sacrificed – in the pursuit of justice.

As his attitude towards all of them softened, so had she softened towards him. She felt no small amount of guilt for it. Was it a betrayal of her people and their cause? Was her hope that Félix would turn from Zathár no more than selfish fancy? She would have thought her convictions were stronger than that – but then she would hear Félix’s voice in her head, speaking impassioned words about the freedom of his people, and simply couldn’t shake her true, gut belief that he was a good man beneath it all.

She sighed, setting the tray down on the housetop. What use was it to fall slowly for a good man if he wouldn’t sway from the other side? Another creeping, insidious thought assailed her as she headed towards the helm: what if her Da was right, and Félix was playing her in the name of escaping harsher treatment? The very thought made her shiver. She was certain that wasn’t the case, but at the same time, she was becoming hesitant to trust her own convictions on the matter.

Her thoughts were arrested by the sight of Arden at the helm, lantern light illuminating his melancholy expression. He held course as if by instinct, but his attention was elsewhere. Following the direction of his empty stare, Ehrin turned to see the hazy glow of _Rhane_ ’s lights off of their starboard bow. She wasn’t the only one at war with herself these days.

Arden must have heard the creak of the deck beneath her feet; after a moment his head snapped in her direction. “Finished for the night?” he asked.

She nodded. “Not much new. The Lord of Belen’s name is Olivier, though I suppose you know that.”

“He spoke to you of his family?”

“Some. His brother is not as accomplished a warrior, but is a better politician. Fé—the Commodore says some of the other tribes have scores to settle with him, and that’s why his brother’s leadership is still supported. But . . .” she trailed off.

“But?” Arden prompted.

“There’s something he’s not telling me. He said his Da had reason to regret naming Olivier his successor, but wouldn’t get into it when I asked.”

“Interesting,” he hummed. “If there’s aught I need to know before walking into that council, I hope that between the two of us we can extract it from him.”

Ehrin murmured her agreement, annoyed at her role in interrogating Félix, annoyed that she hadn’t done better, annoyed that she was annoyed about it—

“Do you think he’s coming around?” Arden asked.

“I think he’s questioning himself. Maybe.”

“I wish I knew how to make him see,” Arden shook his head. “It would be far easier if he were an emissary and not a prisoner. He has reason enough not to want to hear me out. He’s stubborn, what’s more, and I suppose I can understand the difficulty in owning up to a mistake of this magnitude.”

Arden’s choice of words reminded her of another important piece of information. “His parents are both still alive.”

“Oh? Interesting. I’ll have to get V—” he broke off, gaze sliding back to the _Rhane_. “I’ll have to give that due consideration,” he amended.

“You miss him.” Ehrin had heard the slip.

His shoulders sagged. “I’d rather not discuss it.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I guess I’ll get going then; the galley could use a wipe down. I can take the helm from you after.”

“Don’t bother; I’ll be fine here. Get some rest.”

“But—”

“You’ve been up longer than I have, with meal preparations and all. Jonah’s fine on bow watch. Sleep.”

“Alright,” she breathed, turning away from the helm. “Have a good watch, Jack.”

“Thanks.” His voice was muffled by the wind, eyes focused on the _Rhane_ once again. “Pleasant dreams.”

…

After several hours spent below nursing a cup of herbal tea, Sybina gave into the squirming queasiness in her stomach and decided to spend some time on deck. Leaving her tea behind she reached for her sun hat, arranging her plait before tying the ribbon snugly beneath her chin. She wondered whether or not Valory was on deck and whether or not she might get the chance to watch him sail. She had avoided spending time away from the cabin in the days since their departure, not wanting to pass time in the presence of the islanders who made up the crew of the _Rhane_. After yet another lonely morning, however, her resolve had broken.

She squinted against the bright sunlight as she emerged onto the quarterdeck. Glancing around she saw a coxswain she didn’t know at the helm, but no sign of her husband. She let out a quiet sigh. She had hoped that she would have the chance to spend time with him that afternoon. Resigned, she moved over to the rail of the ship to watch the waves roll against the hull. It seemed unnatural to her, to be so far away from land. Almost by instinct she reached for the cold press that always sat just in the back of her thoughts. It was a comforting thing, to know that she wasn’t alone.

“What brings you up on deck?”

Sybina jumped, startled by Valory’s rumbling baritone. Whirling around, she came face-to-face with his boots. She craned her neck upward to watch him descend from the standing rig, landing light on his feet beside her.

“I thought the fresh air might do me good, my Lord,” she replied.

“That’s right – you’re still feeling seasick,” Valory frowned.

“It comes and goes,” she said. “Have you spent much time shipboard, my Lord, or does brine run in your veins?”

She received a tight smile in response to her teasing tone. “Perhaps a bit of both; I’ve been on the water since the advent of the Season of Storms, but I did take to the water as a boy.”

“What is it the fishwives say – that you’re just short of growing gills and a tail?”

Valory shrugged. “Something like that. You seem to be in high spirits in spite of your ailment.” He paused, glancing back up into the rig as if already contemplating his exit.

She reached out for his forearm, fingertips pressing into the familiar stamped crescent on his vambraces. “Have you been doing much sailing today, my Lord?” she blurted, casting about for any conversation topic that would keep him there.

“I have. It’s a good day for it, with the wind brisk as it is.”

“You must enjoy it. You have been on deck more than Captain Landon,” she said. It was no exaggeration; the Regent had volunteered for watch with regularity since their journey began. He seemed to prefer the night watches and as such, Sybina often went to bed alone and woke up to an empty cabin in the morning. If not for the rumpled sheets on the other side of the bunk, she wouldn’t have believed he was sleeping at all.

“It is good work,” he said. “I find I have always preferred working with my hands.”

She nodded, letting her hand drop from his forearm. She could already see the beginnings of one of his nervous tics as he shifted his weight from foot to foot; he was growing impatient.

“What work were you doing up there?” she asked, wincing at the plaintive tone in her voice. She had never had trouble with engaging others in conversation before marrying Valory. She was unsure what it was about her presence that tried him so, but was determined to overcome it.

Valory moved to stand beside her, looking up into the rig and pointing. “Do you see those sails?”

“The ones shaped like squares?” she asked, shielding her eyes with a hand.

“Yes, those. It takes several men to set one, and some of them must be up there to do it by hand.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

“I suppose it could be, if one lost one’s footing. There’s a saying that sailors have – one hand for yourself, one hand for the ship.”

“An impressive feat nevertheless, though I daresay you’re so accustomed to it that you don’t see it as such anymore. If I were up there, I don’t think one hand for myself would be enough. I’d need at least two.” She cast a wry smile in his direction. “Or perhaps eight, like an octopus.”

The mental image must have amused him, for it drew his lips up at the corners. “Some of those men were climbing the rig before they could walk, or so I’m told; they’ll be up the ratlines in a gale without a second thought.”

Sybina could hear the admiration in his voice. “What about you, my Lord?”

“Have I been sailing all of my life? Not like this. I learned how to one-man a sloop when I was a child, but didn’t find myself on a proper ship until I was your age,” he said.

“And you were never afraid? I think I might be, if I had to climb up so high,” she replied, frowning up at the sails above her head.

“Heights have never been a fear of mine, no. You are in good company, though; I’ve heard tell that many sailors face such a fear at the beginning of their careers.”

“Did Lord Arden?”

The mention of his Steward had Valory turning his head out of reflex, sighting _Windjammer_ off of their port quarter. Sybina could just make out the figures standing on deck, but couldn’t tell whether or not Arden was among them.

“I don’t know, truth be told,” Valory said, eyes still on the other vessel. “If he was, he is no longer. I’ve seen him climb _Windjammer_ ’s rig; he’s a fine sailor.”

“He is indeed.” This was Landon’s voice. He bowed before both of them before turning to Valory. “Eventful watch so far?”

“Not at all. No sign of anything in the water and the wind has freshened enough to carry full sail.”

“Good tidings,” Landon said. “I think we’ll put a tack in now that the conditions are so good. She’ll come around nicely in the wind.”

“Off I go then,” Valory nodded. Sybina’s dismay must have shown in her face, for he reached out to take one of her hands. Leather and callouses scratched against her palm as he dropped a kiss onto her knuckles. “I will see you at the next meal, my Lady.”

“Yes my Lord, and please – be careful if you go up there again,” she implored.

“Of course,” he nodded, lips twitching as if he was trying to stifle a smile. He turned before his expression betrayed any more, heading forward to work the lines with the uniformed sailors.

A frown tugged at her lips as she watched him go. She had the terrible, nagging feeling that something wasn’t right – that he was avoiding her. She had long held faith in her ability to build a rapport with him, faith which had begun to wane since they set foot shipboard. She knew that she wasn’t giving him enough time to know her, and that the process of winning his heart would be a slow one: especially with a man as principled as Valory. Yet she couldn’t help but feel discouraged by the past few days.

In the weeks leading up to their departure, she had spent time imagining what the trip to Anaphe would be like. Shipboard travel had seemed romantic and exciting, even if it lacked the amenities she was accustomed to. She had passed the days before the wedding daydreaming about the little cabin she would share with her husband. She had played out the conversations they might have in her head – the things she would ask him, the stories he would tell, the laughter they would share. She could still picture her fantasy in detail: lying in his arms, the boat rocking them from side to side, the deep timbre of his voice as he finally dropped his stern demeanor and opened up to her. Although she had every intention of using such opportunities to draw him over to her side, she had privately promised herself at least a week just to relish in Valory’s company before worrying over duty once more.

Back in Armathia it had always appeared so simple. Valory’s recalcitrance had seemed a product of circumstance rather than anything to do with her. These days, however, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow disappointed him – that every time she opened her mouth, she said something he didn’t want to hear. It was hateful. She had never thought that she would miss the Queen and her wretched, dangerous enchantment, but she longed for someone to speak to about the past few days: someone who also knew her husband.

 _Perhaps this is just his way_ , she thought. _Perhaps he needs time to believe that I care for him. He must think me a silly young girl. He—_ she shook her head against the tears that threatened. She loved him. That such freely-given love could be repaid with indifference was unthinkable. _Perhaps that servant of Illen was right in one respect, and we will grow together with time._ She sighed. _Yet time is the one thing I do not have_.

“Are you alright, my Lady?” Landon’s words cut into her reverie.

“Yes Captain – just woolgathering. Am I in your way?” she asked.

“Not at all. The Regent had told me you were feeling ill; the fresh air should do you some good.”

“It already has,” she assured him. She liked Captain Landon in spite of herself. He was a kind man, but it wouldn’t do to forget that he was an islander.

“Now that you’re feeling better, I’m happy to take you for a turn around the vessel,” he offered.

After a moment of quiet debate, curiosity won out. Hadn’t her Lord once counseled her to know her enemy? “I would like that, thank you.”

Taking the Captain’s arm, they began a slow stroll around the quarterdeck. Landon pointed out features of the _Rhane_ to her, yet she only half paid attention; ships were romantic in fantasy, but rather mundane in reality. She smiled and nodded in the right places, greeting the other officers as they passed.

Landon led her down below as well, which she found herself more excited for. He indulged her curiosity and allowed her to peek into crew quarters, though he wouldn’t permit her to enter the area where the off-watch men were sleeping. They took a shortcut through the crew mess to reach another part of the ship, but found themselves waylaid by the cook’s offer of another cup of herbal tea.

As they took a seat at the end of a long bench, a plate of biscuits between them, Landon resumed his running commentary about the difficulty of storing dry goods aboard leaky vessels. Sybina spent a few minutes regarding the buttons and brocade on his coat, nibbling at one of the treats in hopes that it might further ease her nausea. Her concentration on Landon’s monologue was waning when a movement in the corner of the room caught her attention.

Two of Landon’s sailors sat at another table, mugs of grog set before them. Their heads were bent close together, conversation clearly private. Sybina would have thought it a serious matter if not for the smile on the face of the sailor angled towards her. Landon, noticing her distraction, turned to see what she was staring at.

As he did, one of the men let out a quick, wordless exclamation, lifting his arms out of his lap and rucking up his sleeves. She watched as he picked at the buckles of his vambraces – stamped with the crest of the Kythrian navy – before dropping them down on the table.

Sybina could see the look of surprise writ across his companion’s features as he reached out to touch a buckle. Another smile broke out across his face and, with a string of low, murmured words, he began the process of removing his own.

“What are they doing?” she asked, quietly enough that the sailors wouldn’t realize they were being observed.

“Swapping vambraces, by the looks of it.”

“Why?”

“It’s symbolic; that each will always be there to protect the other in battle. A rather nice gesture, I think, though really only done by military men.”

Sybina furrowed her brow. Across the mess, the sailors were strapping on each other’s vambraces, each buckling theirs onto the other’s arms. There was something about the scene that was strikingly intimate. “Do all sailors do this?”

Landon let out a quiet laugh. “I think you misunderstood me, my Lady. Men only swap vambraces with one they consider themselves bound to. In the navy we call them matelots, though it goes by many names.”

“Bound to one another?” she repeated. One of the sailors had rested his hand atop that of his companion. Their heads bowed together once more.

“They are to one another as you are to the Prince. Some believe that it is Ranael, not Illen, who watches over the union of two sailors.”

She looked back at Landon in shock, disgust rising within her. “Two men cannot be to one another as a man and a woman can.”

Landon’s brows rose. He spent a few moments searching for words before replying, “The heart wants what the heart wants, my Lady.”

“They must not know any better,” Sybina reasoned.

“Preference is preference, my Lady. I doubt the two of them would find womanly company very compelling.”

Sybina was stunned. “But to prefer another man over a woman?”

Landon shrugged. “I have known the company of both. They each have their merits.”

“You?” she asked, a look of utter revulsion twisting her features. She stood.

“I had not thought you would find it so upsetting, my Lady,” Landon said. “It is the way of things.”

“It is a perversion,” she said. “It is—” she cut herself off, inwardly berating herself for losing control of her words. Her hand strayed to her mother’s locket. _Steadfast_. It was fruitless to provoke an argument with the darkness that lived within all of Illen’s children. She wouldn’t win Valory to her side by engaging in petty disputes and verbal duels. “Forgive me,” she murmured, leaning against the table, “I am feeling unwell again. I think I will take my tea in my cabin.”

“Very well, my Lady. Let me inform the cook and I will escort you there,” Landon said, standing and disappearing into the galley.

Alone in the mess with the two sailors, Sybina stared down at the half-empty plate of biscuits. She hoped that he wouldn’t speak of this to Valory; it would only set her progress further back. Risking a glance at the men in the corner, she saw that their fingers were threaded together as they shared a quiet, private joke. Until her husband better understood, she couldn’t share her thoughts on such matters with him. Indeed she couldn’t share much with him at all, here on this ship where two sailors showed more affection in a moment than Valory had ever shown to her.

Sybina felt her lip quiver and clenched her jaw. _Steadfast_ , she reminded herself. _Dauntless._ Shutting her eyes, she tried to draw some strength from the cold pressing that sat at the back of her thoughts. She couldn’t let herself forget that she wasn’t alone, not even shipboard, not even in the middle of the empty blue waters of the Gulf of Anaphe.

…

“That’s a fine bit of work,” Lars said, admiring the railing in the main companionway. Delicate coxcombing ran down its length, culminating in a four strand braid that, when it was finished, would look as though it had no beginning and no end. “I can’t believe you have the energy for it.”

Arden shrugged, not taking his eyes off of the braid. “Thanks. I suppose I’ve just felt the need to keep my hands busy.”

Lars nodded, sympathetic. “Don’t run yourself down, now. We’re off watch.”

“I don’t see you resting.”

“I was just headed to the galley to see about a snack. Is Ehrin down there?” Lars asked, dropping the issue. It was pointless to force his concern on the other man; he knew from experience that Arden would only ignore him.

“I assume so; I heard her rummaging through the larder a few minutes back.”

“Want anything?”

“Nah, I had a cup of coffee and a spice cake a while back.”

“She’s still making those for Belen then, is she?”

Arden glanced up from his work. “She gets on with him somehow.”

Lars snorted. “Yeh, well, I think I know _exactly_ why it’s _her_ the Commodore has taken a shine to. I know she can manage it, but I still worry.”

“I worry as well, to be honest, although I’m reluctant to intervene. We need her to keep at it; she’s the only one of us he’ll speak candidly to – and perhaps rightly so, after what Valory and I did to him before Kilcoran.”

“He’s a navy man. He’s fought in wars before. He knows how it is,” Lars said.

“I’m sure he does, but were your roles reversed, would you jump to strike up an alliance with the men who put you on the board?” Arden raised a brow.

“Alright, maybe not,” Lars conceded.

“She has him talking in a way I couldn’t hope to replicate. I can only hope that this isn’t a ruse on his part, and that he feels some affection for her. If anyone could get him to see his error, it’s Ehrin.”

“I suppose that’s so, all things considered,” Lars blew out a sigh. “She’d be annoyed if she knew how worried we were.”

“Not big on being treated like a little girl, is she? Sometimes I still see the little thing she was back when I first came aboard,” Arden admitted.

“She’ll always be like my little sis, even when her hair goes grey,” Lars declared. “If Belen does aught to harm her I’ll rip his throat out through his arsehole.”

Arden laughed. “You’ll have to get in line, I wager.”

They were interrupted by the urgent ringing of the ship’s bell. Arden started, sheathing his marlinspike. These days the continuous clanging could only mean one thing. Sure enough the ringing was followed by a jarring thump as something connected with _Windjammer_ ’s hull. Together Lars and Arden scrambled up the companionway to the quarterdeck. Ehrin flew out of the galley behind them, ripping off her apron and tossing it into the salon. She emerged onto the deck hot on their heels.

Arden’s cutlass was drawn and ready the moment he was topside. He ran for the helm where Callum was already barking out orders. “There’s a pod of them,” Callum said, gesturing to port. “Little buggers, but vicious.”

“Squid?” Arden asked as he moved to the railing. The sun was bright that day; he could see the outline of one of the creatures as it tracked _Windjammer_ through cerulean blue water.

“The first one looked more like an octopus,” Jonah said. “Niko counted six before they dove to regroup. Well, that’d be five now.” He clapped Niko on the back.

“Could there be more?” Arden asked.

“It’s possible. I hope not. I got lucky,” Niko admitted. “The thing nearly had me.”

Arden looked over towards the _Rhane_ , hoping that the squids had chosen to leave the larger ship alone. Landon must have heard their bell; he had run up a flag in query. Feeling another jolt against the hull, Arden pressed his lips together in consideration. Help from the _Rhane_ would be welcome, yet not without risk: he hated the idea of allowing Gulf creatures to attack the ship that bore Lady Sybina. If she was somehow injured – or worse – during the conflict, it would wreck Anaphe.

If he were honest with himself it wasn’t Lady Sybina’s safety at the forefront of his mind. With creatures coming at them from all sides, however, he hardly had the time to conduct a rigorous examination of his motives.

He glanced around at his men. Five creatures, small though they were, would be a lot for the six of them to handle. Something about the idea of involving the _Rhane_ , however, made the hair prickle on the back of his neck. His hand strayed to his talisman. He had long ago learned to trust his instincts.

“Let Landon know we have it under control.”

“We do?” Jonah asked.

“There are two people on that ship who are Anaphe’s only hope for holding out against the coming invasion. Let the creatures chase us – I’ll not take the risk of letting them aboard _Rhane_ ,” Arden replied.

“Do you really think they could best the Regent? We’ve all seen him fight.”

Arden’s lips thinned. “No – but I’d be doing a piss poor job as his Steward if I elected to take the chance.”

“Come on lads,” Callum said, “Jack has the right of it. There’s more precious cargo aboard _Rhane_ , and what kind of sailors would we be if we couldn’t take a few Gulf creatures? Let’s fall off to a beam reach and give those rubbery beasts a run for their money.”

His orders were carried out immediately, sails let out to turn _Windjammer_ onto her fastest point of sail. She lurched forward, picking up speed and heeling over. Glancing back to the stern, Arden could make out the dark shapes of the creatures moving beneath rippling blue waves. He nodded, satisfied, as he saw them change course to follow _Windjammer_. Behind them _Rhane_ ran up another set of flags ordering them to come about. Arden snorted.

“Landon can eat his hat if he thinks we’re going to let those things have a crack at Val and his wife.” Raising his voice, he answered Ehrin’s unspoken query as she tugged at the flag halyard. “Ignore them. Make ready for the creatures.”

No sooner had he spoken than another creature thumped against the boat, this time along _Windjammer_ ’s transom. Arden flew to stand between the creature and the helm, peripherally aware of matching jolts coming off their starboard beam and port quarter.

He was ready for the tentacle that slapped over the transom, but not for the spray of ink that immediately followed. He dodged the worst of the spray, but still managed to catch some up an arm. It was ice cold and stung bitterly, clinging to his skin. Jonah came up alongside him, cutlass at the ready as a second tentacle slithered over the side, followed by the first glimpse of the creature’s mottled mantle. Its color changed as it moved, dark spots on its skin ringed by iridescent green.

The creature was fast, striking out against them with precision and avoiding their counterattacks with ease. It advanced to perch itself on the railing, rolling to expose the hard beak that sat where its tentacles met. It was hoping to feed on them.

Arden managed to sever the tip of a tentacle with a clever stroke, soliciting another spray of ink. This spray he anticipated, however; knowing the liquid to be mostly water he was able to push out with his enchantment, reversing its momentum to throw it back at the creature. Surprised as it was by his efforts, the creature hesitated, giving Jonah the chance to sever another tentacle.

Inch-by-inch they beat the creature back over the railing, Arden striking out with both cutlass and enchantment. The creature flinched each time flame licked its sensitive skin, giving Jonah the opening for a killing stroke. With a shouted “ _Hold her steady, Cap!_ ” he leapt onto the cap rail, grabbing hold of the main sheet with his left hand and using it to prevent him from toppling over the transom. The momentum of his swing helped him drive his cutlass into the creature’s mantle.

Arden allowed himself a moment of satisfaction as the creature dropped off the back of the boat, spitting and wailing, to sink down beneath the waves. Grabbing Jonah by the belt, Arden hauling him back onto the deck once more. “Well done,” he said.

“Can’t wait to tell the lasses about this one,” Jonah quipped.

They turned away from the transom just in time to watch Lars drive his spear through the sensitive underbelly of another one of the creatures, thrusting upwards next to its beak. He drew a face full of ink for his troubles, but the creature ceased its struggles and went limp soon thereafter. Niko kicked it off the railing and into the water with a cheerful invective.

Across the deck, Ehrin was locked in a battle of her own. One of the creatures had latched onto midships, slithering beneath the foresail boom in an attempt to wrest high ground away from her. She dodged back past the foresail traveler, using the jerking sheet as a shield against the creature’s attacks. Despite her best attempts she continued to lose ground, edging back to avoid the swiping strikes of the creature’s tentacles.

“A little help would be nice, lads!” she shouted, barely deflecting a blow in time and compromising her balance in the process. She landed wrong on her back foot, leg giving out from under her.

Arden saw her go down and raced to aid her, Jonah and Niko on his heels. Charging down the quarterdeck steps he watched Ehrin roll out of the way of another attack, raising her cutlass in defense as she struggled to stand under the onslaught. The creature must have seen them arrive, however, for it spat a stream of ink their way. Ducking to avoid the viscous spray Arden didn’t even see the incoming tentacle; Ehrin’s wordless shout was the only warning before he was soundly clocked upside the head.

He went down on one knee, grunting, hand coming up to cover the side of his face. His eye would be black within the hour, no doubt. His enchantment, swelling in step with his ire, spilled out from his fingertips; flame rushed forward to lick at the creature’s skin, nearly setting it alight. The stench of burning flesh followed immediately, coupled with the creature’s wail.

In its agony it reached for its nearest prey. Having since scooted to the leeward side of the deck Ehrin was out of reach, and so the creature went for Jonah instead. Curling a tentacle around his calf, it jerked backwards and made for the cap rail and a quick escape. Jonah let out a startled shout, twisting to grab at the deck for purchase.

“Oi you slimy bastard!” he panted, wincing as the tentacle tightened around his leg. Arden and Niko rushed forward to aid him but Jonah was faster, twisting in the creature’s grip to plunge his rig knife into the tentacle. The creature released him, hissing.

Back at the helm, Callum had been shouting words of encouragement at Jonah, keeping one eye on the mainsail’s telltales and another on the _Rhane_. Landon had turned in pursuit of _Windjammer_ as soon as they had fallen off course. Although _Rhane_ was faster, _Windjammer_ had a head start. They’d be through with the creatures before they were caught.

The blow to the back of his head took him by surprise, slamming his forehead into the helm. He cursed, pain stealing his breath for the span of a moment. By the time he regained his bearings and turned to face his attacker, blood had started to stream into one of his eyes. Squinting, he groaned aloud at what he saw: two creatures climbing up the transom side-by-side.

“I’ll hold ‘em off as long as I can, Cap. You alright?” Lars had rushed over as soon as Callum was struck.

“No worse for the wear,” Callum grunted. “Don’t bother fighting them; two’s too many. Get to windward. I’ll throw ‘em off.”

Lars raised his spear, casting a look at Callum that let him know how absurd his idea was. “Crash gybe? Cap?”

“Have any better ideas?” Callum asked, ducking another swipe of a tentacle. He wiped at his eyes, blood smearing across the back of his hand. “Lead them up next to the traveler, or better yet, try to get ‘em on the cap rail.”

“Aye,” Lars replied, shuffling into position.

“Get yer heads down lads, gybe-ho!” Callum shouted, throwing the helm hard over.

 _Windjammer_ ’s stern swung towards the eye of the wind. As soon as the wind’s fingers crept around the sails it slammed them across the boat with a thunderous crash. Callum crossed his fingers; boats had lost their masts pulling such maneuvers, but he knew his _Windjammer_ was hardier than most. He only hoped that Lars had the creatures in position, and that his shrouds and sheets could take the strain.

“Bloody hell!” The shout of surprise came from midships as the sheets snapped over. Callum watched one creature get knocked clean overboard by the main. The other’s tentacles had gotten snarled up in the slack as the sail crossed; when the full force of the wind tightened the sheets, it nearly took them off. The creature fell back towards the water in defeat.

Amidships the crash gybe had surprised all of them: the creature not the least. Taking advantage of the opportunity presented as the sails crossed and the now-leeward side of the deck dropped with _Windjammer_ ’s heel, Ehrin darted towards the confused creature. Favoring her right ankle she swung her cutlass two-handed, hitting the creature squarely in the center of its mantle. Although she wasn’t strong enough to deal a killing stroke, the blow was enough to finally drive the creature back overboard.

Arden rushed to the side, watching the last of the creatures sink beneath the waves. Once he confirmed that they weren’t regrouping for a second assault, he launched himself towards the shrouds, checking and rechecking to ensure that the gybe hadn’t done any damage. Satisfied with what he saw, he looked back at the helm in time to watch Ehrin reach her father and begin to fuss over the gash in his forehead. He reached the helm in a few loping strides.

Callum stepped away from the helm, offering it up to Arden as he approached. “Ehrin’s going to patch me up quick. Looks like the lads are alright save for a handful of bumps and bruises, yeh?” he asked.

“Jonah was tagged on the leg by a tentacle, but it’s nothing serious. Ehrin, what happened to you?”

“Wrenched my ankle a bit when I was up on the housetop, but it’s not as bad as I thought at first,” she said. “Come on, Da – you’re still bleeding.”

“Let’s heave-to,” Callum said, ignoring Ehrin’s insistent tugs on his sleeve. “Landon chased us down; he’s wanting a word with us, I’m sure. I’ll be back topside in a blink.”

Arden glanced behind them. Callum was right: _Rhane_ was closing the distance fast, and had run up flags ordering them to halt.

“Heave-to, lads; time to have a chat with the _Rhane_ ,” he announced, adjusting their course as Jonah, Niko, and Lars began to trim the sails. Before long _Windjammer_ was in irons and all of her sails had been backed to work against one another, stopping them dead in the water.

“Will they be tying on?” Jonah asked, pausing to reach down and rub at his calf.

“I don’t doubt it: prepare to catch lines,” Arden replied.

He had anticipated Landon’s orders; as _Rhane_ approached, several of her crew were standing to port with docklines ready to cast. True to his word, Callum was back on deck before the gangway was secured, a fresh bandage wrapped around his forehead.  As soon as the two ships were rafted and the gap between them bridged, Landon and a handful of his men were ready to board their vessel. At Callum’s behest they met on the quarterdeck.

The pinched set to Landon’s features eased as he took in the relative lack of damage to _Windjammer_ and her crew. “Gulf creatures then, were they?” he asked.

“A handful of them, Captain.”

“That wasn’t what your relay indicated to us before you fell off course,” Landon said. His consternation was evident.

“The decision was mine. Your duty is that of an escort; it seemed a safer bet to keep the creatures away from your vessel,” Arden spoke up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Valory crossing the gangway and making for the quarterdeck.

Landon let out a long sigh. “I know why you ran. You could make the case for it being a prudent decision, at that – but you have forgotten that you are traveling as part of a flotilla.”

“Are you saying you would have let us wave you away from the conflict so long as we provided an explanation?” Arden asked.

“Maybe not, but I don’t appreciate being kept in the dark. If you would answer my requests next time . . . Captain?” Landon sent a pointed look at the star pinned to Arden’s collar.

Arden held Landon’s gaze for a long moment, considering his point. “Very well; I had thought of ignoring your request as a means to an end, but I see that the means were inappropriate. It won’t happen again. If I am to be forthright with you, however, you must let me do my job.”

“And protect the Regent and Princess?” Landon completed, clearly pleased by Arden’s apology. “You have yourself a compromise, Lord Arden.”

The brief clasp of arms was punctuated by the heavy trod of Valory’s boots on the quarterdeck. The trod warned Arden not only of Valory’s approach, but of his current state of mind. Despite the scowl painted across Valory’s face, Arden wasn’t prepared for the biting words that came as he approached the helm.

“What were you thinking?” Each word was sharp, snapped out like the crack of a whip.

Arden raised a brow. “You can’t be serious – you know exactly what I was thinking.” Valory’s deepening scowl informed him that he shouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions. “You are, aren’t you? Gods, you’re serious.”

“What in Fángon’s name was that?” Valory continued, voice dropping down into its lowest register. Even Landon seemed taken aback by the vehemence in his tone.

Arden’s hackles rose at the words – spoken thus in front of their men, no less. “Look around, _my Lord_ : your arrival in Anaphe is so vital to our cause that you are being escorted by a warship. What kind of a Steward would I be if I had let Gulf creatures attack the vessel that carried you?”

His words did not soothe Valory’s ire in the least. “Is that some sort of off-color jest? Do you think those creatures would have gotten near me?”

“This was not a slight against your swordsmanship. My decision was the right one, and I stand by it.”

“What has gotten into you?” Valory’s hand had landed on the binnacle, knuckles white. “Putting your life at risk for naught?”

Arden was able to brush off criticism. He had done it on Kilcoran, in Armathia, and aboard the _Windjammer_ herself at times. Yet there were days when, as Callum had so bluntly pointed out, he couldn’t find it in him to back down.

“Is your inability to see the logic in my decision a matter of blindness or a matter choice?” he asked.

His dig stoked Valory’s ire. “Oh believe me, I see: and you will not do such a thing again. Am I clear?”

The shock of Valory pulling rank – aboard _Windjammer_ ’s quarterdeck, no less – made the heat rise in his face, made his balled-up fists shake with barely-contained rage. When he spoke his voice was low, but brittle with anger. “Do not speak to me thus. Not in front of my men, not ever. Turn around, walk down the companionway, and have this out with me in the salon if you must: but I will not have this conversation in front of my crew.”

Valory sprang away from the helm without a moment’s hesitation, slamming through the doorway of the companionway and storming below. Arden caught the look of stunned surprise on his crew’s faces as he followed Valory down, shutting doors behind him. He found Valory pacing around the salon like a caged animal. As soon as Valory registered his presence he swung around, demanding,

“What are you playing at?”

“This is not a game. The creatures may be common enough, but I couldn’t let them at the _Rhane_ : not knowing who was aboard. It was a chance I refused to take.”

Valory let out a mirthless, incredulous laugh. “So you chose to fight them off with a crew of six instead? Playing the martyr, Arden? That’s beneath you.”

“It is my duty to guard you. I swore it! And now you ask me to forsake my vows?”

“I swore the same, did I not? We’d have fought better together – that’s why I have a Gods-damned Steward to begin with, isn’t it? It’s not as though you escaped unscathed, either; I see that shiner the creature gave you.” Valory’s fist slammed into the table, its contents jumping. “You could have been killed!”

“You’re letting concern for me cloud your judgment.”

“Oh good, denigrate my concern for you. Take another page from your father’s book, why don’t you?” Valory retorted.

“Do _not_ compare me to him,” Arden snarled.

Valory rounded on him, pacing back across the salon to where he stood. “Then get it through your thick head – my life is not more valuable than yours!”

“Debatable at best, that.”

“Don’t—”

Arden forged ahead as though he hadn’t heard Valory’s objection. “If I can’t get through to you on that point, then answer me this: whose life carries more weight, mine or your wife’s? Shall I let the creatures come for her next time? How would the old Anaphean nobility take it if you were to land in the city _without your Anaphean bride_? This is not about my life or yours – this is about something far bigger than either of us. We are at war, Valory – and I am fighting to protect the most important players.”

“You say that as if you aren’t one, as if—” he dropped his voice, “as if she’s more important than you.”

Arden shook his head in disbelief: Valory had put them both in this position, and now he was upset that Arden had taken his role to its natural conclusion? Weeks of simmering frustration finally came to a head; he felt his anger boil over, temper slipping out of his control. “More important? She damn well should be, Valory – she vaulted into that position the day you married her!”

He realized he was shouting. His men could probably hear him up on the quarterdeck, and he didn’t care at all. It was liberating to finally yell it right at Valory as they stood toe-to-toe.

Valory reared back as if struck, turning on his heel and striding to the companionway. “Fine.” He stopped, standing stiffly in the doorway with his back to Arden. “Keep taking it out on me, if it’s easier. But do not put yourself between her and harm again: not if it risks your own neck.” At those words he turned, eyes meeting Arden’s, stare blade-sharp. “Don’t.”

“I stand by what I said. Given the chance, I’d make the same choice again.”

“You stubborn bastard,” Valory seethed. “You say you don’t want me to compare you to your father? That’s a shame – because you sound just like him.”

It was a dirty blow, and Arden responded in kind. “Get off my ship.”

The words were immediate, and garnered an immediate reaction. Valory stormed off, slamming the salon door shut as made for the deck. Arden heard the heavy tread of his boots as he stomped across the deck to the gangway.

He leaned on the table, fingertips clutching the edge, anger still hot in his blood and fogging his thoughts. Their argument spun in his mind; recalling Valory’s words only served to fan his temper. He must have spent several minutes thus occupied, for when Ehrin came down to see him, he could hear the hesitance in her step.

“Jack?” she called, peeking her head into the salon. “Is everything alright?”

“How much did you hear?” Arden turned towards the doorway.

She looked down at her nails. “Scraps, mostly, though there were a few things you shouted that we heard loud and clear. They didn’t hear a thing on _Rhane_ , or so I’m told; Landon’s men hadn’t realized the Regent was down below at all.”

“That’s alright, then,” Arden murmured, mostly to himself.

“Will you . . . are you . . .” Ehrin trailed off.

“It’ll pass eventually.”

“You’re still angry, then,” she surmised.

“Nothing to stop the clocks over.” He shook out the tension from his shoulders, forcing thoughts of Valory from his mind. “Your father wants all hands to put rights to the deck and bring us back around to a close reach, I assume.”

Ehrin frowned at him. “If you didn’t have anything else you wanted to discuss with the Regent, yeh.”

“Then we’ll get going then, shall we?”

“Bad luck to start a sail without making peace with your man,” Ehrin reminded him.

“I’ll risk bad luck in lieu of apologizing for doing naught wrong.” His words had been harsh, perhaps, but his judgment had been sound. If Valory couldn’t see that, it was because his own perception was clouded.

He ignored Ehrin’s doubtful, knowing hum and headed out onto deck.

…

The wind died a few days after the encounter with the creatures, leaving the surface of the Gulf’s waters as calm and smooth as glass. When not on watch the men sat on deck, watching the shapes of fish and dolphins dart beneath their hulls. Only Callum’s stern warning kept Lars from jumping in with his spear to start the chase; with creatures out and about, they couldn’t take any chances.

Arden had kept mostly to himself since his argument with Valory, stewing over what had been said. Only much later was he able to admit (perhaps with a bit of coaxing from Ehrin) that his decision had been influenced by personal desires as much as duty and prescience; the thought of Valory in harm’s way tied his stomach into knots, no matter how many foes he had seen the man face down. Yet thinking back upon Valory’s heated words still served to raise his ire, and days passed without remark or overture from either side. This evening, however, was different.

Arden looked up from his plate, watching one of Landon’s Lieutenants try to engage Valory in conversation with limited success. Valory sent the occasional glance in his direction – brief flicks of his eyes – before turning his attention back to the remains of his meal.

The invitation sent to the officers of the _Rhane_ had been masterminded by Ehrin. Under the premise of wanting to meet the Princess, she managed to extend the invitation not only to Valory, but Landon and his men as well. Arden wondered whether or not Valory would have declined had the invitation had it not been worded so cleverly as to force his hand.

“A game of Ante would be just the thing, wouldn’t it?” Niko asked as the last of the plates were cleared. Arden offered his up to Ehrin with a disapproving glare.

“What do you wager?” Landon’s second Lieutenant cast a cautious glance at his Captain.

“Pride alone, sailor; you won’t be violating the articles. Will you stay for a hand?”

The sailor glanced at Landon once more. Landon waved a hand in dismissal of his concerns. “Captain Callum and I were hoping to have some words regarding our journey. If you’d rather stay here until I’m finished it makes no difference to me – so long as the Regent and Lady Sybina do not wish to return to the _Rhane_ before then.”

Valory opened his mouth to reply, but Sybina beat him to it. “It is no trouble, Captain. Miss Ehrin had something she wanted to show me.”

Valory’s eyes narrowed, aiming a suspicious look at the galley. “If that is my Lady’s wish. What will you be showing us, Miss Ehrin?”

Ehrin appeared in the salon doorway, a dish towel draped over one shoulder. “Respectfully my Lord, it’s a ladies’ matter.”

Arden weighed his options as the men around the table sniggered, heaving a sigh when Valory turned to glance at him. The suggestive waggle of Ehrin’s eyebrows told him all he needed to know: she had planned this meticulously, Callum and the lads working under her direction to leave him alone with Valory to ‘sort it out’.

Resigned, he looked back across the table. “Perhaps you’ll take a nightcap with me, my Lord?”

The offer surprised Valory. They had barely spoken throughout the meal; he must have assumed that Arden was still angry with him. True though that may be, it didn’t make Arden any less willing to extend the offer of a nightcap, even manipulated into it as he was.

“Of course,” Valory replied. If he saw Ehrin’s triumphant grin out of the corner of his eye, he didn’t comment.

Callum stood as if on cue, bidding his men enjoy the evening and showing Landon to his cabin where they would spend the evening poring over his collection of charts. The crew filed towards the deck, carrying their mugs of grog with them, bantering over whether merchant or navy sailors were better hands at cards. For a moment Arden feared that he would be left to make small talk with Lady Sybina, but Ehrin swooped in before the silence grew oppressive.

“If you’re ready, my Lady.” She curtseyed.

Sybina stood, anticipation dancing across her features. “I am. Shall we?”

Together they disappeared up the companionway, leaving Valory and Arden alone at the table.

Silence reigned for several long minutes. Arden swore he wouldn’t be the first to speak. He wouldn’t draw Valory out this time: it wasn’t his responsibility to extract an apology from the other man, and an apology was no more than he felt he was owed.

He began to seethe once more, thinking over Valory’s haughty disrespect for his station – all in the face of the risks his crew had taken on his wife’s behalf. He ground his teeth. He hadn’t expected Valory to pull rank, though perhaps that was naïve of him. If Eramen’s sons were level-headed, after all, what need would they have had for the House of Stewards?

Valory cleared his throat, drawing Arden’s attention. His eyes were locked on the table’s surface. “I had not thought you would extend this invitation.”

“The occasion was Ehrin’s doing.”

“I was speaking of the nightcap,” Valory elaborated.

Arden traced the grain of the table, swirling a finger around a knot in its worn surface. “Stewards do not hold grudges. I am trying to be a man worthy of my title.”

“You are still angry with me, I take it.”

“You’re damn right I am,” he muttered.

A long pause followed that – long enough that Arden began to doubt that Valory would speak again. He had just begun to consider joining his crew on deck when Valory broke the silence.

“Perhaps you have reason to be,” he said, voice full of gravel.

Arden looked up from the table, meeting Valory’s eyes. “Oh?”

“I shouldn’t have questioned your judgment in front of your men. Were our roles reversed—”

“They often are. It is my job to question your judgment.”

“Yet with more tact, it seems,” Valory acknowledged. “I meant what I said, though I regret how I said it.”

It was mediocre as far as apologies went, but Arden sincerely doubted he would get any more from the man. “I share some blame. I was angry, and I goaded you,” he admitted. “Yet I still don’t think I made the wrong call.”

“Arden.” Valory made a frustrated noise, looking away.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t do this in the salon.”

Valory frowned. “Did your crew hear?”

“Some of what we said, yes. I’m surprised our voices didn’t carry all the way to the _Rhane_.” He stood, turning towards the door to his cabin. “Will you join me?”

Valory followed him into the cabin, letting out an audible sigh at the sight of the familiar space. It was sparser than it had been before Arden’s return to Armathia, yet still remained littered with texts and objects of study: this time focused upon Westernese dialects and customs.

“You say you couldn’t let me walk into harm’s way, not with Zathár at our borders. Yet isn’t your role in this war just as vital?” Valory asked, tapping an old chart depicting Western shipping lanes.

“It’s not and you know it,” Arden argued. “Imagine the blow to morale – to Anaphe – if you didn’t arrive with the _Rhane_. I couldn’t let my judgment be clouded by thinking otherwise.”

“What, you think my desire to stand with you against those creatures is no more than a product of clouded judgment?” Valory arched a brow.

“In this case, perhaps. Your concern for me was borne of this thing between us – not my role in the negotiations in the West.”

Valory nodded. “You’re right about that much: I was desperate at the thought of you fighting without someone at your back. Thoughts of Oceana and the war were few in that moment. But don’t tell me your decision was unlike mine. Yours was not made with level objectivity, either.”

“Are you calling me a hypocrite?”

“Is it apt?” Valory fired back.

A scowl etched itself onto Arden’s face, yet a niggling voice in the back of his mind reminded him that Valory wasn’t wrong. Yes, he had acted out of consideration for the consequences were the _Rhane_ compromised, but could he claim that he would have done the same if Sybina had been on the vessel without Valory at her side? He couldn’t be sure.

“Don’t do that to me again,” Valory continued. “Watching you fight in my stead was excruciating.”

“I can’t make that promise. Like it or not, becoming the Regent has changed things for you.”

“Is this about Sybina?” Valory’s voice dropped to a murmur, mindful of who might be listening.

“In part. She is an aspect of your new role, is she not?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Arden held Valory’s stare for a beat. “If you’re asking whether I’m resentful over her, then yes, I suppose I am.”

“Because you put your men in danger for her?”

“That’s one reason, though I recognize it’s unfair of me to think so.”

“I know you’re still upset about the rest,” Valory acknowledged.

“And you’re not?” Arden cocked a brow.

“Stop misrepresenting me. You know what I meant. Only . . . perhaps I had forgotten how well you hide such things.”

Arden grimaced. “As I said, I lost control of my temper.”

“I had come to the erroneous conclusion that you didn’t have a temper like mine, and came on deck the other day as though stoking the fire wouldn’t set you off,” Valory sighed.

“I’ve been simmering for many weeks,” Arden admitted. “I made some mistakes with my approach – and still more when speaking about it with you afterwards – and I am sorry for them. Yet I still think my decision was sound.”

“Arden.”

“We won’t always see eye-to-eye, you know; the very thought is absurd. I shouldn’t have expected that from you,” Arden continued.

Valory let out a sigh. “We do agree quite often though, don’t we? I suppose we are spoiled by it.”

“Quite. Yet your previous accusation that dissent so troubles me – as if I were turning into my father – irked me to no end. That’s not me, Valory: I was not bothered by your dissent. I was bothered by your disrespect.”

Valory’s lips thinned. “Yes, that was inexcusable.”

“You have already apologized, in your own way. I only wanted to make clear the distinction.” Arden shrugged. “It’s in the past. Besides, you were in a state when you came aboard.”

Valory stepped forward, fingertips coming up to ghost down Arden’s temple and land no his cheekbone, skirting the dark edges of the bruise he had been sporting since the conflict. “I saw it strike you, you know.”

Arden sucked in a breath. Despite the still-present irritation that hummed in the back of his mind, Valory’s proximity had the same effect it always did. “Did I look a right fool, then?”

“No,” he murmured. “You reacted quickly enough afterwards. For a moment, though, all I could think about was the Sea-Witch King.” His other hand slid around to the nape of Arden’s neck, tracing the silvered reminder of that battle.

“You’ve left me to watch you fight as well, you know. You’ve no idea what Elona took out of me,” Arden replied, voice raw.

“You had my back.” Valory pressed forward until their foreheads touched.

“Don’t make as though they’re not one in the same. We may have been on the same deck, but you went to fight it alone,” he said, circling his arms around Valory’s waist.

“Ironic, that our attempts to protect one another seem to succeed in the letter but not in the spirit.”

“And would you turn back the clock and have me with you on the foredeck, then, knowing that?” Arden asked, running his thumbs over the ridges of Valory’s hipbones.

“No,” he admitted.

“It appears we’re at an impasse, then: both of us clinging to the same tendencies.”

“I did call you stubborn, did I not?” Valory’s lips quirked.

“While insulting my parentage, yes,” Arden snorted. “Though the description isn’t inaccurate.”

“Well. It seems I’ve met my match then, haven’t I?”

Arden felt a smile steal across his face unbidden. “I’d say so.” He paused, letting his forehead rest against Valory’s for a long moment. “I take it my apology is accepted, then.”

“It is. And mine?”

“Of course.”

Valory’s hands came up to cup Arden’s jaw. “Good. I had wondered whether foolish words had lowered your regard for me.”

An incredulous huff of breath passed Arden’s lips. “As if anything could lower my regard for you. Val, you can be a right prick when you set your mind to it –”

“Not I alone.”

“Oh, to be sure – but you didn’t take your oath lightly, and neither did I. If you are capable of the kinds of acts that would make me turn from you, then I am too poor a judge of character to be named a Steward of Oceana.”

Arden knew that Valory had heard the sentiment he had meant to convey _._

“I’m glad we’re of a mind,” Valory said, a slow smile capturing his features. “It is good to hear such things from your lips.”

Arden reached up, running a thumb across the curve of Valory’s smile before leaning in further for a lingering kiss. Even when they parted he kept his eyes shut, breathing in Valory’s proximity, feeling the welcome warmth of the skin beneath his palms.

“And it is good to have you here,” he murmured, a belated response.

“With that said, what odds would you give that Landon and Sybina will be happily entertained for the next hour?”

Arden smirked at the knowing glint in Valory’s eyes. “If Ehrin has anything to do with it . . .”

“Excellent.” Valory’s smile turned predatory as he began to walk Arden backwards across the cabin.

Arden’s eyebrows rose as he felt his shoulders connect with the bulkhead behind him. “I thought,” he said as Valory leaned in, brushing his lips over the purpling on his cheekbone, “that you had an objection to doing this ‘up against the wall like an overeager lad’, as you once put it.” He loosed Valory’s queue, letting the hair fall over his shoulders.

Valory’s hands halted just over the lacings of Arden’s trousers. He looked up to meet Arden’s eyes, face nearly curtained by his hair. “Well,” he said, tongue darting out to lick his lips, “it seems I’ve changed my mind.”

Arden felt, quite suddenly, as though his lungs weren’t getting enough air. Valory trailed kisses over his jaw, down his neck, and nipped at his collarbone, fingers resuming their work on his laces. Arden knew what he’d do the moment the knot gave way, though that in no way prepared him for the (increasingly familiar) sight of Valory’s graceful slide to the floor before him.

A laugh burbled out of his throat, drawing Valory’s eyes upwards once more. “Gods,” he said, “it’s a shame you’re so nobly born, you know. The way you look on your knees—”

Valory’s answering grin was positively wicked.

They didn’t speak again for some time.

…

“I know you said you liked them, my Lady, so—” Ehrin broke off as Sybina grabbed her hands, pressing them in thanks as a brilliant smile broke across her face.

“May I?” she asked, crouching down next to the fo’c’sle companionway to peer inside the crate nestled there. Inside the crate sat Mizzen – as uninterested in the affairs of men as ever – and four small kittens.

“Be careful, my Lady. She’s not the friendliest,” Ehrin warned, sitting down on her bunk.

Sybina let Mizzen sniff her hand, stroking her cheeks a few times before gently patting the kitten nearest her. Mizzen’s low, rumbling purr surprised Ehrin; the cat could be an ornery thing at times, and certainly had been since he had bedded down in the fo’c’sle to have her litter.

“What a sweet girl,” Sybina whispered, stroking Mizzen once more before carefully lifting one of the kittens – a little grey tabby – out of the crate.

“She’s not always so sweet,” Ehrin remarked. “The lads joke that she’s Lord Arden’s cat; she doesn’t let anyone else near her. Well, save the Regent, I suppose.”

“Perhaps she smells him on me,” she suggested, turning her attention to the kitten cradled in the crook of her elbow.

“D’you think cats notice things like that, my Lady?”

“I know they do.”

“You’d think the cat would love me then, as often as I smell of food and the like,” Ehrin muttered.

Sybina laughed. “You’re the cook, then?” she asked.

“I patch the lads up as well.”

Sybina glanced at Ehrin’s chest, brow furrowed. “You have no enchantment.”

“I’m not a Healer, no. We haven’t had one in some time. Unless Da finds us one who’s also a seasoned sailor, I’ll have to make do.”

“What’s it like?” Sybina asked, shifting so the now-purring kitten could knead at her bodice.

“Taking care of the lads?”

“All of it. I asked my husband about you once. He said you’ve been on _Windjammer_ since you were a little girl.”

“It’s a good life,” Ehrin said, reaching out to pat Mizzen who, in her placid state, allowed it without retribution. “I love the sea – always have. I guess that comes with being an islander, but there you have it. I love being out here. I feel . . .”

“Free?” Sybina supplied.

“Useful,” Ehrin corrected, “if that makes any sense, my Lady.”

“Ah.” The look of bliss that had marked Sybina’s features since she caught sight of Mizzen melted away. “I understand.” One hand left the kitten’s fur in favor of toying with a gold locket that sat nestled just above her talisman.

“Did I say something, my Lady?”

Sybina shook her head, a faraway look passing across her features. “No, only – your words make perfect sense to me. I’ve felt that drive as well, to have a purpose. A calling, even.”

“Is that something that women of your station think about, my Lady, even though you don’t have trades?” Truth be told, this was the first candid discussion Ehrin had ever had with a noblewoman. She was surprised as anything that Sybina had started it.

“No,” Sybina admitted, “but my father had no sons, and I suppose that he wished for me to fill both roles. His hopes for me must have taken root, for I find that I don’t like the idea of being adrift – in life or at sea.”

“The wind will pick up soon, my Lady.”

Sybina cast a sidelong glance her way. “I suppose you mean that metaphorically as well as literally. You’re correct, of course. I’m afraid I’m wallowing in my present condition, for everything does seem cast adrift right now – on pause, while I wait for the next chapter of my life to begin.”

Ehrin felt sympathy lance through her at the girl’s downtrodden expression. She couldn’t imagine being ill, away from home for the first time, _and_ hauling upwind across the Gulf all within the span of a few weeks. Her own first days aboard _Windjammer_ had been tinged with grief for the loss of her mother, but between Jack, Lars, and her father she had never felt lost.

“Is it lonely, my Lady? Your station?”

Sybina nodded, fingers trembling as she stroked the kitten’s soft fur. “It can be. More so now.”

 _Of course_. Ehrin bit her lip, conflicting thoughts welling within her. She doubted that the Regent was any more than distantly courteous to his wife, and felt an absurd moment of guilt that she quite likely had an easier relationship with him than Sybina did. She thought of Arden, of the times she had seen Valory and Arden together. She couldn’t possibly wish for it to be different, yet she found herself feeling intense pity and sadness on behalf of the poor girl before her.

Over the past few weeks she had only considered Arden’s hurt. Now she saw what a truly terrible, binding situation it was for all parties involved. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she murmured.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” she sighed. “It must be nice to be surrounded by people all the time – people who feel they can speak to you without risk of offense.”

“Yeh,” Ehrin agreed. “The lads are like my family, to be sure. Still, there are some things you can’t say to a deck full of sailors. I know what loneliness feels like, my Lady.”

Sybina’s hand stilled. “I must seem awfully weak, spilling my heart to you like this.”

“No, my Lady.”

“Do you know my husband? You sailed together for some months, if I remember.”

Ehrin couldn’t miss the hopeful lilt to her voice. She could hazard a guess why the Princess would ask her such a thing, and felt a rift in her loyalties: saying anything about how she knew the Regent to be could be catastrophic if it piqued Sybina’s curiosity and bade her investigate. Yet to watch Sybina hold out hope for a love that would never be returned – and say nothing – felt terribly cruel.

Ehrin swallowed. “I don’t know him well, my Lady. He has always been very reserved.”

“He is. Yet I’d hazard a guess that he’s far more candid with you than with me.”

Ehrin realized that Sybina was watching her carefully out of the corner of an eye. “Well my Lady, you know how it is; soldiers and sailors can be crass as they please when not in mixed company.”

“And they don’t consider your presence?”

“I think they forget that I’m not just another one of the lads.”

“Then I was right in suspecting that you know my husband better than I do.” Sybina’s hand stilled upon the scruff of the kitten’s neck.

All that Ehrin had heard about the Princess had painted her as a sweet girl who lacked the ability and desire for meaningful intrigue. As a result, she hadn’t thought she would need to watch her words so carefully during their brief audience. She had assumed that Sybina would be easy to separate from the rest of the officers out of a desire for companionship, but hadn’t considered that Sybina might have followed her to the fo’c’sle with her own agenda in mind.

“Seems a bit odd to agree with you, my Lady. Perhaps I know his ways aboard a schooner better than you, but he’s never sat down and had a chat like this with me, if that’s what you mean,” Ehrin replied.

Sybina wore an expression of pleasant neutrality. “I hope you don’t feel as though I’m interrogating you, Miss Ehrin. You told me before that you find joy in taking care of _Windjammer_ ’s crew. You must understand that I only wish to do the same for my husband. I’m not so prideful as to imagine that I couldn’t learn from you in this matter.”

Ehrin opened and shut her mouth. “Well my Lady, I suppose I can tell you that he’s not got much of a sweet tooth, if that’s the sort of thing you’re after.”

“Oh?”

Ehrin struggled to dredge up more meaningless trivia about the Regent. “He prefers savory treats, I think. He was a particular fan of my beef buns. But as I said, my Lady, I just feed the lads and patch ‘em up. The Regent kept company with others.”

She had Sybina’s full attention at that. “Whose company did he keep?”

Ehrin cursed inwardly. She could tell a falsehood, bribe a guard, and drive a mean bargain – but this kind of verbal chess wasn’t her strong suit by far. She forced a smile. “Sorry my Lady, I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant that he spent his time with his men – other soldiers and the like.”

Sybina’s eyes sharpened for a heartbeat before she relaxed, beginning to stroke the kitten once more. “I see. Thank you, Miss Ehrin.”

Ehrin had the feeling that she had narrowly missed putting her foot in it. “Of course, my Lady.” At Sybina’s answering silence she pressed on. “Whose company will you keep in Anaphe, my Lady? Do you have family there?” Sybina visibly brightened at the question; Ehrin breathed a sigh of relief.

“Cousins, one who I know through correspondence. We’ve never met before.”

“Never? You must be excited, my Lady.”

“Very. He has promised to help me settle in, for which I’m thankful.” She began to scratch behind the kitten’s ears. “It will be thrilling to see the court of Anaphe, after hearing so much about it. I particularly look forward to the musical performances. I’ve heard there are several court musicians – even a string quartet.”

“Do you play, my Lady?”

“I had lessons like most ladies do, and learned to play a bit on my father’s harp, but I was never very good. I always liked the fiddle better. I don’t think I’d ever have wanted to perform, though. I like to listen,” Sybina replied.

“We’ve a musician on board, you know – Jonah. He’s Kilcoranian, but a fiddler,” Ehrin remarked.

“Really? Do you think he’ll play tonight?”

Her excitement seemed at odds with the pointed questions she had asked only moments earlier, and reminded Ehrin of the not-insignificant gap in their ages. Lady Sybina wasn’t as simple as she seemed, perhaps, but she still retained some of the girlhood that she had only recently outgrown.

“I’d be surprised if Jonah wasn’t on his fiddle already, though the lads did say they’d have a few hands of cards first.”

Sybina was torn between the desire to continue petting the kitten and going back on deck. “I suppose my company would put them ill at ease,” she sighed.

“If you’d like to see the music, my Lady, you just say so. Jonah’d fall over himself to have you for an audience. And if the others complain, well – I’ll be feeding their pecan slices to the fish, then.”

“Thank you,” she said, lowering her eyes to regard the kitten. Giving it one last cuddle, she placed it back in the crate with Mizzen.

Ehrin made a mental note to make sure she got one of the kittens; it did her heart good to think that at least one of the little creatures would go to a home where it was pampered and appreciated. “Come on then, my Lady – let’s see what the lads are up to on the quarterdeck.” She grinned, extending a hand to help the Princess to her feet.

She couldn’t wait to see the look on Jonah’s face.

…

Cradled in the vee of Arden’s thighs, Valory leaned his head back onto a shoulder, eyes shut, enjoying the feeling of Arden’s fingertips scratching over his scalp. The hand that wasn’t tangled in his hair dipped into his unbuttoned collar, tracing the dip in his throat, the top of his sternum, the rise of a collarbone. Arden had begun walking his fingers over the disheveled material covering his stomach when a thought struck Valory.

“The cat.”

“What?” Arden’s confusion was evident, hand pausing at the waist of Valory’s still-undone trousers.

“Where’s your cat? She’s usually trying to insinuate herself between my knees right about now,” Valory clarified.

“Ah. Well, you won’t have to worry about her claws getting too close to your bits this time; she has more important matters to attend to.”

“Oh?” Valory arched a brow, eyes still closed. He felt Arden reach up to smooth the lines in his forehead.

“Some Armathian tom cat must have got her with a litter before we left for Elona. She bedded down in a crate in the fo’c’sle, for which I’m grateful. They’re sweet little creatures, but do they ever stink.”

Valory snorted. “Perhaps she feared she would lose them in this mess.”

Arden socked him in the shoulder. “Ha, ha.” When his hand returned, it began tracing the silvered scar on Valory’s brow.

Valory enjoyed the ministrations for a few more minutes, pushing off the thought of getting up, washing off, and – inevitably – returning to the _Rhane_. His thoughts wandered, pulling him towards much-desired rest. He struggled against the somnolence that threatened to pull him under, forcing his eyes open and meeting Arden’s.

“You’ll stop in Anaphe, won’t you?” he asked. His head bobbed with Arden’s shrug.

“We’ll have to; we didn’t bring enough provisions from Armathia to last us the whole journey up the river.”

“How long will that take?”

“A few days at most, providing nothing on the boat needs fixing by the time we get there.” Arden rubbed at the scar again, following the line of puckered flesh down Valory’s cheek.

“You’ll come to the palace with me, then?” Valory asked, aware of how hopeful he sounded.

“I think Callum will be sympathetic to my position. I’ve never met my niece before, you know – I’ve only ever seen her from afar.”

“That’s right,” Valory mused. “You two will get on.”

“I hope so.”

Valory tilted his head back to catch Arden’s eye once more. “You will. It’s just as well; I’ll need the both of you as I settle into my role both in council and in the city at large.”

“I’ll be there for as long as I can.”

Then he would leave for the West. Valory felt a shiver of worry run through him at the thought of _Windjammer_ sailing to Zaránd without an escort. If the other day was any indication, he would be miserable knowing that Arden was in harm’s way without him. He chose not to voice this worry aloud.

“Good,” he finally said. “It seems you’re more at peace with the situation as it stands.”

Arden hummed his agreement. “I find that the combination of shouting and shagging has made me feel better about things than I had anticipated,” he admitted.

Valory let out a snort of laughter. “We’ll have to remember that for next time.”

Arden trailed a hand down to grope at Valory through his trousers. “Especially the shagging; I find I much prefer that to the shouting.”

“Perhaps next time we can skip the shouting altogether, then,” he quipped, drawing Arden’s laughter.

“You have yourself a deal.”

…

“Letting a Kilcoranian girl stand behind you with a knife, are you? I thought you were more careful than that, desperate for a haircut though you may be,” Ehrin laughed. She toyed with a strand of Félix’s hair, winding a curl around one of her fingers.

“Worth the risk.”

It was a stab at Oceanic custom, she knew, for him to be so vehemently opposed to letting his hair grow long. Two weeks’ worth of complaints had finally done her in, however, and she volunteered to crop it back to his preferred length. _It’s a shame_ , she mused, fingering another strand. It almost reached his shoulders. She wondered what he would look like if he let it go longer.

“When was the last time you had it cut?” she asked, trying to picture how he had looked when they first met one another. In front his hair had fallen onto his forehead, but in back she remembered being able to see his collar.

“Not long before we met.”

“Shipboard?” she asked.

“Yes. Get on with it.”

Ehrin ignored his impatience. “Who used to cut it for you? You can’t have done it yourself.” She stretched a curl out all the way, bringing the knife up to slice through it.

Satisfied that Ehrin had begun to carry out his request, Félix relaxed. “My first officer.”

“Your first officer spent time giving haircuts?” Her incredulity was apparent.

“He was a friend.”

“Ah.” She remembered the man Félix spoke of. He had died by her hands. She shook her head hard, pushing memories of that day out of her mind. “I’ve not heard you speak about any of your other officers so.” She cropped another curl.

“No,” he agreed. “I do not have many friends.”

“Why?”

He snorted. “Is your Prince Valory any different?”

Ehrin’s hands slowed as she thought. “He is friendly with his men.”

“His three officers.”

“Yes. And then there’s Arden, of course.”

“Hm. Some of my officers have been returned to Belen. If I am not hung for treachery, I will find them.”

“Oh. But the others . . .” she trailed off.

“My first officer is dead, yes.”

“You were close,” she guessed.

“We grew up together. _He was the son of a titled landowner, but didn’t stand to inherit. We were the same age, and were trained for battle in the same class. I didn’t get along well with the others, but by the end of our first campaign he and I were friends. When the time came we both chose the navy_.” Félix paused. She heard him swallow. “ _He was a good man_.”

Ehrin shut her eyes, hands stilling on the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“You are not. If he had lived, you would have gone to the river in his stead.”

“I’m sorry that it hurts you.”

“Why do you care?” he demanded, voice thick.

“I don’t know, Félix.” She took the blade to another strand of hair, watching the ends fall to the deck beneath their feet. “Does being shown kindness bother you so?”

“You should want me dead.”

She grew bold, carding a hand through his hair. He leaned into the touch for a moment before righting himself, back ramrod straight once more. She sighed. “I had thought we were long past all of that. I wish you wouldn’t be so suspicious of my motives.”

At that he turned to regard her, eyes almost black in the lantern light. “ _I am Belenese royalty. I am never shown kindness without ulterior motives_.”

“Not at home?”

“There are few I can trust,” he said, turning away. He leaned into her touch once more as she wove another strand of hair between her fingers.

“Did you never want for companionship?” she asked, smoothing a curl down and making another cut.

“I was a solitary child.”

“You never played pirates with the other lads then, or ran ‘round making mischief?”

He shivered as her fingers brushed over the shell of his ear. She gathered the hair at his temple, pulling it taut.

“When I was very young, perhaps,” he murmured. “The play stopped when my brothers and I grew old enough to understand our role. Then there was no more play between us.”

“My cousins stopped playing such games as well, but they would still sail together in the bay or catch fish for my aunts. Later they used to go to the bar together to chase skirts.” She cropped his hair close to his temple, leaving it just long enough to curl over his ear.

“ _We had no such pastimes. We were already competing for the approval of our father and the council.”_

“But you devoted yourself to a different cause,” Ehrin observed.

“Yes. _I devoted myself to the reunification of Madesta as a young man; not to the service of that council of imbeciles. It has been my only pastime for many years. So you see, I had no time for games_.”

“Is that why you never married?” She cropped the hair at Félix’s other temple, carding her hands through to shake out any trimmings.

“ _I do not have time for a wife, nor patience for her machinations. If she birthed a son he could have a claim to power, a claim that many Belenese women would try to stand upon. My brother would not tolerate such games – it would start a terrible battle for succession_.”

“Do you think that’s all a woman would see in you?” she asked. “A way to the throne?”

“ _In Belen I am a stepping stone to power: one who is conveniently absent for long stretches of time. My merits are few aside from my connections; my wealth comes from my commission and I own no land. Yet only the most avaricious families court my favor_.” He snorted. “ _They think they can use me to unseat my brother. But I do not want my brother’s position, nor do I want any son of mine to covet it. They can throw their daughters at me all they like: civil war is anathema to what I’ve been working for_.”

Ehrin’s teeth worried at her lower lip as she thought, fingers idly toying with the short-cropped hair at his collar. “In Oceana the younger sons of kings are married for the sake of alliances.”

“To—” he paused, grasping for the Oceanic word, “dissenters? Political opponents?”

“Troublemakers, more like,” Ehrin amended, thinking about Anaphe. “Wouldn’t you do the same?”

“No. It is too dangerous in Belen. It would be too easy for some Januzian or Arrindurian to take our throne and turn traitor.”

“There’s no intermarriage between tribes?”

“Not in my station. It is part of the problem, but it will not be solved until Madesta is free. If I were not the man I am I could take a Dramorian bride instead. But I would not do that, even if my brother ordered it,” he replied.

Ehrin sank down to his level, sitting next to where he knelt. She reached up to trim the hair that hung into his eyes. “I can see that being the case,” she said.

“Hm.” He regarded her through the half-trimmed curtain of hair.

“You don’t seem the type. To be frank, I’d not take orders on that matter, either,” she elaborated.

“Has your father tried?”

“I think he knew better than that. Besides, I reckon he’d rather have me around than not. We’re close, Da and I, and it’s not as though I don’t earn my keep.”

“That is unusual,” Félix remarked.

“What, that he has no plans to see me wed? I’m a bit long in the tooth for that, don’t you think? Seems I’m meant to marry the sea,” she quipped, making her final cut and pausing to admire her handiwork. “There. It’s a good enough look on you, though still odd if you ask me.”

“It is better than looking like a woman,” Félix retorted.

“Says you,” she laughed. Félix’s lips twitched up into a smile. “Alright,” she said, reaching up to brush a stray clipping from his forehead, “that’s all the time I can spare for your vanity. I’m trying to finish these scones before my next watch.”

Félix nodded. “You have wasted much time with me today.”

“I’d not call it wasted,” she protested, words dying in her throat as Félix reached up a hand, trailing his thumb across her cheekbone.

“You should not care for me,” he said, eyes boring into hers. “I will disappoint you.”

She swallowed. It was part demand, part warning – yet she couldn’t help but feel as though the warning was meant for his own ears as much as it was meant for hers. “Maybe you will,” she said, thinking over all of her father’s words on the issue. “Maybe. But I’ve still not given up hope.”

They were interrupted by the long, low creak of a hatch opening above their heads. Félix jerked backwards, dropping his hand to his side.

“ _Ehrin!_ ” Lars bellowed into the hatch.

“What?”

“Whatever you have in the oven should have been taken out already, if the smell in the galley is anything to go by.”

Ehrin leapt up, sheathing her rig knife and nearly tripping over her feet on the way to the ladder. “I’ll be right up,” she called. “Open the oven, make sure there’s no flame!” As she scrambled up the latter, she cast a last glance towards Félix, who wore his customary smirk.

“Should I not expect any scones for supper?” he asked.

“Oh for Fángon’s sake,” she muttered, shutting the hatch behind her. She hurried towards the galley, hearing Lars’ string of Sarian invectives as he tried to touch the oven without wrapping a rag around his hand first.

With her help, they managed to cajole the tray of ruined scones out of the oven and onto the stovetop, from which she prodded them into a pot. She had to get them out of the galley quickly or they would smoke up the salon; she’d never hear the end of it.

Lars followed her up topside. Since she had first learned to bake, they had made a game of pitching her occasional inedible batch or unfortunate experiment over the side to see who could toss it further. The competition had begun when she was little; Lars always won, but she heckled his throws all the same. Yet even as she stepped up to pitch the last of the blackened scones overboard, distracted by Lars’ teasing and her father’s running commentary, she still found her thoughts sliding two decks below to where Félix sat in the hold.

Her throw fell well short of Lars’, for which she promised him she’d bake his favorites next.

Her cheek still felt warm where Félix’s hand had lain.


	8. Chapter 8

_The Season of Peace  
Erán the 10; 2422_

When the sails were spotted at the mouth of the bay it took Malcolm and Jarmon’s combined efforts to keep Fiona from rushing down to the docks. Captain and councilor both watched with shared amusement as their viceroy flitted about her sitting room: struggling into her ceremonial robes, re-braiding her hair, and wringing her hands as she rehearsed whole conversations in the mirror.

When the time came to meet the new arrivals it was Jarmon who acted as her escort, Malcolm taking up his habitual post at her other elbow. They sped through the hallways, passerby stepping aside in deference. Although Malcolm’s shoulder had not yet recovered its full range of motion, he hadn’t received a whisper of challenge to either his or Fiona’s authority for several weeks; their actions on the day of the attack had displayed their true mettle to Anaphe’s ruling classes, and their supporters had since come out in droves.

“Oh Illen, not now,” Fiona murmured as the corridor opened up into the square, raising a hand to prod at her temple.

“Another headache, my Lady?” Jarmon’s concern was palpable.

“I’m hardly at death’s door, Jarmon – you need not carry on so,” she grumbled.

Jarmon gave her a long look. “I know your physician said it’s nothing my Lady—”

“But sometimes the things I say make little sense to you, I know, I know.”

“Not at all,” he countered. “Sometimes the things you say make too much sense.”

She didn’t have time to puzzle over his statement, for the inner city gates swung open as he spoke. As they opened Fiona was struck by a jarring presence, wincing at the force of impact. She knew the Prince’s enchantment immediately – she had always felt it in her teeth, for some reason – but soon realized that she felt the acute presence of another powerful talent squeezing her ribcage as well. Jarmon stiffened next to her. She allowed herself a moment’s amusement at how poorly his talent got on with the Prince’s before turning her attention back to the gates.

Valory was the first to catch her eye. He did not catch hers alone; the people who had flocked to the square to greet the new arrivals called out to him by name, welcoming him to Anaphe. Even if news of his impending arrival hadn’t spread through the city like wildfire some weeks prior, he’d have been known at sight; he was outfitted in the white and gold finery of the House of Kings, a circlet gracing his brow. Fiona felt a moment of sweet triumph swell within her: let the sneaky Dramorian loyalists try to undermine _that_ symbol of Oceanic authority.

Her gaze slid sideways to the beautiful woman on Valory’s arm, wrapped in red silks that were far more common within Anaphe’s walls. Fiona’s lips split into a wide smile. It was true, then – there was a new King upon the throne and the Regent had kept his promise to take an Anaphean bride. Only Jarmon’s tug on her arm kept her from clapping her hands with glee.

“She’s my age, isn’t she?” Fiona asked, turning to Jarmon.

“Very nearly. I expect you’ll be called upon to help her situate herself within the court.”

That thought – that she might find a friend in the Princess – sent a fresh wave of anticipation crashing through her. Jarmon’s nudge brought her back to task as the Regent stopped mere feet before her. She curtsied, hoping that her newly-tailored robes made her look the part of a viceroy and not like a little girl playing dress up in her father’s clothes.

“Welcome to Anaphe, my Lord Regent. My Lady,” she said. She rose from her curtsy to see that Valory – to the audible surprise of all assembled – had bowed to her in turn. “My Lord?” she squeaked.

“Fiona bar Conrad, Illen called you to keep Anaphe in Oceana’s name and you have not disappointed. Tales of your dedication have reached Armathia.”

“I did it all in my father’s stead, my Lord,” she said, trembling. With shaky hands she reached up to remove her father’s pendant, holding it out for the Regent to take.

She was surprised when Valory turned away from her, making way for one of his cohort to step forward and take his place. Her breath stuck in her throat as she caught sight of the blue and silver finery, the regal bearing, the sigil embroidered over his left shoulder.

The Regent’s voice cut through the fog of her thoughts. “May I present my Steward: Lord Arden bar Miran, brother of Conrad?”

“M-my Lord,” she curtsied, daring a glance up at her uncle’s face. She choked back a sob at the sight of him. Hair color aside, he looked just as she remembered her father had when she was a little girl.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Fiona.”

His voice had the same timbre as her father’s, too, even if it was softer around the edges. She swallowed, thrusting her father’s pendant out towards him. “You are welcome in Anaphe, Lord Steward. We have long awaited your return.”

Her uncle’s hand closed over hers. As soon as they touched she felt a wall of emotion slam into her, overwhelming enough that it stole her breath.

“Keep it,” he said, pushing her fist back towards her chest. “You are a daughter of the House of Stewards, and have shown yourself worthy of such a title.” At her hesitation, he continued, “Go ahead. Put it back on.”

She looked up to meet his eyes once the pendant hung about her neck. “You look so much like him, my Lord.”

His smile was sad. “So do you.”

“Please,” she whispered, “may I call you ‘uncle’?”

A brilliant smile broke out across his face. “I’d like that,” he said. He must have known somehow what she would do next, for she didn’t feel a hint of surprise when – propriety be damned – she threw her arms around his neck.

It wasn’t quite like hugging her father, but it was close – close enough that it brought tears to her eyes. She blinked furiously as his arms wound around her in turn. _Oh Father, if you only could have been here today_ . . .

She made a quiet noise as his grip on her tightened. She feared that the water in her eyes would fall onto his finery; the idea of soiling his tunic was acutely humiliating, yet she couldn’t find it in her to pull away. She had waited for this day for so long.

Behind her Jarmon cleared his throat, shifting with discomfort. “Perhaps, my Lords, we might adjourn somewhere more private for this?”

“To the contrary – Lord Jarmon, is it?” Arden released her, but not before putting an arm around her shoulders and tucking her into his side, “What better way to demonstrate how the crown feels about my niece’s efforts throughout the past two seasons than this?”

“Just so,” Valory agreed. “There are a few matters before we adjourn as well: my men must be shown to their usual accommodation, Captain Landon of Kythria has his report to make, and – Captain Callum?”

Callum bowed to Fiona before handing a packet of papers to Malcolm. “A priority request for provisions, sir, as we’re commissioned by the King himself at the moment.”

Malcolm’s brows rose as he accepted the packet with his good arm. “ _Windjammer_ , isn’t it? You were the vessel our harbormaster recommended to the Regent’s service last Season of Storms.” He let out a little huff of laughter. “I delivered notice of your commission to the tavern that night.”

Callum winced. “We were celebrating our mate’s day, sir.”

“I remember. He was—” Malcolm broke off, eyes resting on Arden.

“That’s another discussion best left for later, perhaps,” Arden interrupted.

“Yes,” Fiona agreed, unsure exactly what was being discussed but knowing from the wave of discomfort she felt off her uncle that it was wise to postpone it. “Lord Jarmon, if you’ll ensure that preparations are made for the Regent’s men? We might also send for their dunnage off of Captain Landon’s vessel.” She turned to Valory. “Your rooms are ready, my Lord – I can order baths drawn if you would prefer to rest before speaking of heavier matters.”

“My wife will appreciate the offer, but Lord Arden and I are keen to speak with you as soon as possible,” Valory replied.

Fiona frowned. “My father was right – you _do_ only ever bring bad news, don’t you? Very well, I am ready for guests. Shall we take our meal while we work?”

With Jarmon occupied, Arden offered his arm to escort her from the courtyard towards the wide, open hall at its side. Valory spoke a few words to Sybina, bending to place a kiss upon the back of her hand. She departed without comment, escorted by Jarmon and trailed by two handmaids. Fiona watched her departure with disappointment, but resolved to make her acquaintance later. It didn’t escape her notice how the Princess seemed no more than an afterthought to her husband.

By the time they reached her rooms Fiona noted that most of their contingent had dropped off, leaving her alone with the Regent, her uncle, and Malcolm. A tray with coffee and its associated trappings had already been laid out on a table with several chairs pulled around. She watched, fascinated, as Regent and Steward negotiated the chairs so that Arden was sitting to the right.

“A splash of cream, my Lord?” she asked.

He was surprised that she remembered how he took his coffee. “Yes, and call me Valory.”

“Valory,” she repeated. “And for you, Uncle?”

“Milk and sugar.”

She poured Malcom’s cup without comment before serving herself and leaning back in her chair. She noticed Valory’s knee knocking against her uncle’s under the table, and wondered how they had grown so comfortable with one another in such a short amount of time.

“Is this it then, my Lords?” Malcolm asked, taking his mug to his post at the door.

“I extend trust only to those in this room and to my three men,” Valory replied.

“I hadn’t thought you would return with them when you came, my Lord,” Malcolm admitted.

“A concession of my brother’s.”

“You can trust Lord Jarmon as well,” Fiona put in. “I would not have made it through without his help – and Captain Malcolm’s, of course.” She shivered, remembering his near-sacrifice all too well.

“Yes, we heard the story. It seems we owe you a debt of gratitude, Captain,” Valory said.

“No my Lord,” Malcolm protested through a mouthful of coffee, “you owe me no such thing. I did my duty, I – well, if anything had befallen her on my watch I’d not have forgiven myself.”

There was nothing half-hearted about his declaration. Fiona felt her cheeks redden. “You saved my life, Malcolm. At least let _someone_ show you gratitude for it,” she said. She turned to Valory. “He won’t take thanks from me: it’s even impossible to get him to take a day of leave, you know.”

“My place is at your side, my Lady,” Malcolm replied.

A frisson of pleasure ran through her at his words. As the more effusive of the two of them, she was always glad to be reminded of the depth of Malcolm’s regard. She realized after a moment that Valory had not responded, and looked up in time to see the knowing glance that he and Arden shared. Her cheeks reddened further; she knew that she had, once again, been far too transparent regarding her fondness for the Captain.

She breathed a sigh of relief as the gentle weight of Jarmon’s enchantment settled upon her shoulders, knowing that his entrance would provide a distraction. Sure enough she was spared the need to answer any pressing questions by his habitual pointed knock. Despite the distraction that his entrance provided, she could tell that her uncle was undeterred; impressions of feelings and ideas radiated off of him as his mind raced through a series of deductions.

Jarmon’s formal greeting was swallowed by Arden’s blurted conclusion: “Fiona, you wrote nothing of your enchantment in your dispatches.”

Fiona’s brow furrowed. “I had thought it common knowledge; I’m but a minor Empath.” She prodded at her talisman.

“No,” Arden countered, “not minor – surely not. I can see you registering our thoughts in a way that no minor Empath I know can replicate.”

“A priest of Illen named my enchantment when it first developed,” she said, bewildered by her uncle’s observations. She couldn’t hear the precise thoughts of others, and minor Empathy dealt with feelings, did it not? “My talent is not worth writing over.”

“You signature says otherwise,” Valory remarked.

“Not to mention your headaches, my Lady,” Jarmon added.

“They’re nothing,” Fiona dismissed. “Besides, they began to plague me just this past season, yet my enchantment manifested during my ninth summer.”

“Headaches?” Arden leaned forward in his chair.

“Yes. They’re frustrating, but I promise you they don’t keep me from my duty.”

“They’re also a symptom of a developing enchantment,” Arden pointed out.

“That’s impossible.”

“We are but newly acquainted; as such you wouldn’t have heard about my own, which is somewhat uncommon as well,” he continued.

“You’re a Seer,” she observed.

“Minor. When I was about your age, however, I began to develop a second talent.”

“That’s incredible,” she breathed.

“Research has led me to believe that it’s more common than we might think; apparently it’s possible for one to be unaware that they possess a secondary talent.” Arden smirked at Valory. “Research also informed me that several predecessors of ours have developed power later in their lives.”

“You think I’m developing a second?” she asked.

“Growing in power, more like,” he replied. “I’ve watched you respond to my thoughts. Perhaps you don’t yet hear them verbatim, but you _feel_ them.”

“That is Empathy, is it not? A minor ability,” she argued.

“Not so keen, no.”

“My Lords, I suspect that Lady Fiona’s talent will progress beyond that,” Jarmon said. “I have not spoken of this, unsure as I was of my own conclusions, but there have been times that my Lady has responded to things I haven’t yet said aloud.”

Fiona nearly choked on her coffee. “Have I? When?”

“This very morning, when you told me to stop fretting over your headaches. In faith my Lady, I didn’t say a single word on the matter, but it was in my thoughts.”

“Is that what you meant when you said my words made too much sense?”

“It was.”

“That’s incredible,” Arden murmured. “You’re developing an ability for telepathy.”

Fiona could feel the wonder that underscored his words. If she listened harder, she could hear a low hum as well, one that swelled and subsided with the flow of conversation. She squinted, concentrating. She couldn’t tell whether the hum itself was made up of words – it was too muted for her to draw any conclusions – but she suspected that was the case.

“That’s me, Fiona.” Her uncle’s voice startled her out of her reverie. “You’re listening to my thoughts – I can feel you prodding at them.”

“I can’t hear anything,” she protested.

“Yet,” Arden amended. “I had headaches like yours as well; they were the harbinger of the development of my second talent, yet it didn’t reach maturation until I was in my twenties. You have time.”

“Perhaps I should see a priest about this,” she mused.

“I wouldn’t,” Arden replied. She felt – for a brief moment – a torrent of _anger, regret, bitterness_ spill from him before it abruptly stopped. Fiona’s brows rose. “Apologies,” he continued. “My own experience with such matters was not ideal. Still, I would caution you against making these suspicions public. Enchantments are rare enough in Anaphe.”

“This could be an advantage, my Lady,” Jarmon added, “especially in a court with dubious and divided loyalties.”

“I’ll be no use to anyone if I can’t learn to control it,” she argued. “Who else can teach me?”

“One of my officers is a telepath,” Valory said. “He is skilled and discrete. He would offer his services if you asked.”

“Thank you, My L—Valory,” she corrected, “but I hate to think I’d be a bother.”

“You’ve been given a gift,” Valory reminded her. “It may come with a price, but you will use it to do great things. Do not forget that.”

The deep swell of affection she felt at his words took her by surprise until she realized that her uncle’s feelings were augmenting her own. She had a brief moment to wonder what it must be like to have such a close friend before Malcolm interrupted her thoughts.

“You are looking pale, my Lady. How is your head?”

She smiled up at him in gratitude. “I daresay I’ll survive, Captain.”

“Perhaps you should rest, my Lady.”

“Not until I’ve heard the news from Armathia.” In truth her headache _was_ worsening; she had never been able to hide the symptoms from him. Her curiosity won over comfort, however, and she turned eagerly towards the Regent.

“We were victorious in Ithaka – you must have heard that much,” Valory said.

“Not through official dispatch, but yes; that was the rumor that came our way. They said you slew the Sea-Witch King.” She leaned forward, chin in her hands. “Is that so?”

“Not without aid.” Valory looked over at Arden, who favored him with a smile.

“Will they cease preying upon our shipping lanes, then?” she asked.

“For now. According to Captain Landon they haven’t been sighted since the battle.”

“Good news for once,” Jarmon muttered.

“Yes,” Fiona agreed. “Speaking of . . .” she trailed off, nervously toying with her father’s pendant. “It was exciting news to hear that you had returned, Uncle. I was hoping you might share that story as well.”

“Ah, well,” Arden shrugged. “We have Anaphe to thank for that. I was working as the Mate on _Windjammer_ for a time. A job brought us here late last season, and we chose to weather a storm in the harbor. That put us in town on the eve of Ranael’s Day. By coincidence we were the vessel commissioned by Val and his men to survey the isles.”

“Oh,” Fiona said, rapt. Her headache was atrocious but she could hardly be bothered by it; she could sense snippets of his thoughts just beyond the reaches of her mind, curlicues that spun off of the line of his story. “Did he recognize you?”

“Immediately,” Arden replied, sending another sidelong glance and small smile in Valory’s direction. She could feel the warmth in his words. “By the end of the day my crew realized who they had been harboring that whole time. They were surprised, to say the least.”

“So you traveled the isles together – that explains the dispatches we received from Kythria and Kilcoran after the first battle with the Westernese.” She turned to Jarmon. “I knew it!”

Arden’s smile broadened. “Did you think Admiral Edgar had seen Verne, Lord Jarmon?”

“I didn’t know what to think,” Jarmon admitted. “I had long thought you dead, my Lord.”

Fiona felt her uncle’s _shame, regret, melancholy_ wrap around her, nearly bringing tears to her eyes.

“Yes. But that is a story for some other time,” Arden sighed. “We had Edgar send the dispatches because we left Kilcoran for Armathia as soon as _Windjammer_ was fit to travel. News of the invasion of Ithaka had reached us and we had little time to waste.”

“So you returned to the capital, then?” she asked. “Just like that?”

“Some of the Armathian councilors were hesitant to accept my claim to your father’s position. I can’t fault them for that,” Arden said.

She knew that wasn’t the whole story, but let it rest for the moment. “But the Regent knew you were fit for it, and that’s what mattered, right?”

Valory spoke up. Though he addressed Fiona, his eyes remained trained on Arden. “I saw his mettle on _Windjammer_. I knew he would make a fine Steward, but my loyalty was to your father.”

“You didn’t know?”

“Not until we reached Armathia. It was sprung on us when we appeared before council for the first time. We were grieved to hear it. We are both very sorry for your loss.”

They were: she knew. “Thank you.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat.

“I knew then that none but Arden could fill the role. I suspect he was less certain,” Valory continued, voice dropping to a low murmur. “We had grown close during the campaign in the isles. He was already a friend and ally. When he knelt before me to make his pledge, there was no question that I would accept.”

The feelings running between them were so strong that Fiona couldn’t block them out – _devotion_ and _fondness_ at the forefront. She was aware on some level that Jarmon had begun to respond to the Regent, but couldn’t concentrate on his words. Valory said something more about accepting Arden’s pledge, still looking to his right rather than facing his audience. _Desire_. Fiona felt it clearly; it was the running undercurrent beneath the layers of thought and feeling that rippled towards her every time they addressed one another.

Stunned into silence, Fiona had no idea what to think. Surely she must be mistaken: her talent was still developing, after all. Yet now that she had named it, it did not diminish or change forms; instead, it seemed to underscore every word, every gesture, every knock of their knees beneath the table.

_I must be misinterpreting this. It’s the Regent: he cannot be that way. He has a wife – a lovely, Anaphean wife – who he has been sworn to since I was a babe. To feel thus about my uncle, as soldiers do . . ._

_Does my uncle think the same?_ It was difficult for her to separate one set of impressions from the other. _Have they done as soldiers do on long campaigns? Has Valory dishonored his wife?_ She was no supporter of Dramorian sensibilities, but there were certain things that simply were not done in Anaphe.

As the conversation continued around her, it dawned on her that all present had underestimated her strength – Valory and Arden included. She knew that there were ways to prevent Empaths from prying, and she could only assume that they had implemented these methods . . . yet the humming and the feelings (and, if she really listened, the occasional word) still radiated off of them. They didn’t realize that she could still hear it all. The unsettling reality of the strength of her enchantment – long ignored as impossible – began to coalesce in her mind. _I must already be terribly strong. How had I not known? And Gods, what does that say about how strong I will become?_

She felt a hand upon her shoulder and looked up at Malcolm’s worried countenance. With a shake of her head she cued back into the conversation, giving Malcolm’s hand a quick, unnoticed pat before he returned to the door.

“It was a small grouping of them, but I hesitate to say that we’d have run into them on any other journey,” Arden was saying.

“Then it was creatures as well as witches and men of the West plaguing our shipping lanes,” Jarmon surmised. “We have our own unsettling reports on the matter.”

“Have the livestock deaths continued?” Valory asked.

Fiona had a sudden memory of listening in on a very similar conversation the last time Valory was in Anaphe. It felt as though years had passed since then.

“Not livestock alone,” Jarmon continued. “We have lost messengers as well. Others have seen the bodies of men by the roadside; they’re being preyed upon by some creature. Our messenger was able to recover a fang, but it’s not like anything our naturalists have ever seen.”

“It’s not desert wolves,” Fiona added, pushing aside her discomfiting questions over the Regent and Steward for the time being.

“It wouldn’t be,” Valory said. “The town my men and I found razed in the Borderlands, the sightings of creatures, the desert archer who made his attack out to look like the work of an Armathian: these are all part of a greater script.”

“We’ve been puzzling over that for months,” Jarmon admitted.

“But you’ve been missing pieces,” Arden replied. “We are at war with Dramor. We have not seen their army yet, but it’s only matter of time until we do. To ensure the success of the coming invasion, they have attempted to fracture our territories, cutting off sources of military support and wearing down the peace in Anaphe.”

“That’s why they sent their tributaries to the isles, then, and why the assassin shammed at being Oceanic,” Fiona continued. “But how does that explain the creatures?”

Valory’s stony expression had her holding her breath as he spoke. “We are at war with Dramor, but they are not acting autonomously.”

Fiona felt sick dread form in the pit of her stomach. “What do you mean?”

“Zathár has returned to Arrynmathár. The hour of Reckoning is upon us.”

Her hands shook, rattling her cup of coffee against its saucer. She placed them down on the table, staring at the grounds that swam in the bottom of her mug. “What does that mean for us, then?” she asked, afraid that she already knew the answer.

“Dramor wants the peninsula back,” Valory replied. “Zathár’s armies will come here first.”

“What can we do?” She looked up from her coffee. She was somewhat comforted by the matching expressions of determination worn by Regent and Steward.

“We plan,” Valory said. “We make ready for his armies, whatever they may be. And when they finally arrive?” He leaned forward in his chair, meeting her eyes. “We fight.”

…

Sybina stared at the man who stood in the doorway, startled by how familiar he seemed, before realizing how she knew him. With a wordless exclamation she surged forward, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. She felt a hand come up to pat the top of her head.

“Well met, my Lady,” he said, chest rumbling against her cheek.

“I’m so glad you came. I hadn’t known how I would find you,” she said, stepping back to take another look at him. She could see some of her father’s features echoed in his face: it was comforting.

“It is an honor to finally have you here, my Lady,” he said, bending into a deep bow. “Forgive my absence upon your arrival; I was out hunting and only just returned.”

“No offense was taken, Samir. And please – call me ‘cousin’, as that is what I am.” She shrugged. “You must forgive the mess. As you can see from the chaos, I’m in the midst of unpacking.”

“If you are occupied, I can come back another time. Indeed, I can have your handmaids sent to aid you—”

“Samir,” she smiled, holding up a hand to forestall further words, “peace. Besides, you know that I must do much of my unpacking with my own hands. There are some belongings of mine that are not for prying eyes to see, and unless you have managed to make particular arrangements regarding the Regent’s assigned help, I daresay handmaids would be more of a hindrance at this point in time.”

“As you say, my La—cousin,” Samir nodded, glancing around the room at the assemblage of crates and trunks. “You’ve brought . . . things with you?”

“Not much; it wouldn’t do to risk needless exposure.”

“Of course not,” he hastened to agree.

“I have the Book, of course – in a locked box along with some other items – and a parcel of letters for you and some of your cohort.”

“They will be thrilled to make your acquaintance. You and your father are well known to the Dramorian community here in Anaphe—” Samir’s words were cut off by an undignified yelp. Sybina laughed at the sight of the little ball of fur that batted at his sandals. “What is that?”

She bent over to scoop up the small kitten. “This is my new little friend. My Lord had him sent here with my things not a quarter of an hour ago.” She watched Samir’s frown grow as he processed her words.

“It seems as though the Regent is fond of you, to give a gift that you so coveted.”

“I hope so,” she sighed, giving the kitten a kiss before leaving him to explore the room once more. “He is a hard man to know.”

“Yet you are fond of him.”

“Has my father written to you about him?” she asked, walking to the other side of the room where a table had been set with a plate of fruits and a pitcher of cold coconut water.

Samir took the glass she offered. “Edmund expressed some worry to me regarding your attachment to the man, yes.”

“He is my husband.”

“I heard about his reception of Fiona in the square earlier today. If that is where his loyalties lie, then he is a liability.”

“Careful with your words, Samir.”

Samir bend his head, chastised. “Apologies, my Lady – I hadn’t meant to offend, but his presence here has me worried.”

“Remember that, as his wife, my loyalty must lie with him. It is the way of things amongst our people.”

“Of course, but our Lord—”

“God first, man second,” Sybina agreed. “You’ll find that I’m not very forgiving of my husband’s opinions. I have hope that I may show him the path, however, and I’m not willing to discount him until I have no other choice.”

“Is it worth the risk? One misstep and you would be found out,” Samir cautioned.

“Of course it is,” she declared. “What better man to fight in the name of Zathár than Oceana’s very Regent? He is powerful. It could turn the tide in our favor.”

“Are you referring to his enchantment? I’ve been led to believe that he doesn’t often use it.”

“He is an impressive man, enchantment or no,” she insisted.

Samir paused, glass halfway to his mouth. “You’re in love with him.”

She lifted her chin. “And so what if I am?”

He bowed his head, cowing before her challenge. “I only hope that you are not placing yourself in danger, cousin. You are too important to our cause. If he becomes a threat to you—”

“It will not come to that.”

“Very well,” he said, taking a seat and plucking a piece of grapefruit off of the tray, chasing it with a few large gulps of coconut water. “But enough of such heavy matters, yes? This is no way to greet you after such a long journey.”

She took the seat across from him. “I’m happy to be back on land. I have no stomach for the sea.”

“Our people are desert dwellers,” Samir agreed. “As such I must confess,” he added, eyeing her talisman, “I hadn’t expected you to have an enchantment.”

Sybina flicked the pendant, disdain writ across her features. “I’ve long thought it a tease on the part of that vain, awful Illen. It’s enough of a talent that our people will always see me as tainted, yet so insignificant that I can hardly light a spark.”

“Would you wish to be stronger? He asked, incredulous.

“If I’m to be tainted by her touch I might as well get something out of it.” She realized how petulant she sounded and sighed. “I’m tired of others looking at me with pity for being so weak.”

Samir pressed his palms together at the very thought. “Not weak, my Lady, _never_ that.”

“The implication was not that our Lord chose poorly when he found me, Samir – you know that. I speak of the beliefs of the Oceanic.”

“You’ll not get that here. Enchantments are far rarer in Anaphe.”

“Yet my husband and his men are not Anaphean, and do not see things as do the people here.”

“I see no reason why you should allow his opinion to grieve you. You are one of our Lord’s chosen,” he insisted.

“Valory is still my husband, Samir – remember that. If he thinks me feeble for a paltry enchantment, that is yet one more hurdle I must overcome in order to do my duty.”

Samir frowned down at his glass. “Are you having difficulty with him? The way you spoke before didn’t make it seem that way.”

Sybina took a deep breath, lest her hurts and frustrations over the past several weeks all start tumbling out at once. “He doesn’t know how I care for him – or if he does, the care is not yet returned.”

Samir hummed, tapping a finger against his chin. “When the Regent rejected your father’s suit for the Stewardship, we were worried that he would attempt to break the marriage contract as well,” he said. “To be honest, I was rather surprised he didn’t.”

“Yes, father and I had this discussion as well,” she said, hating how the mere suggestion worsened the tangle of dread in the pit of her stomach. “It hurts my heart to speak of such matters, but I can understand why you had such a concern. I choose to take it as a good sign that he upheld his end. He is seeking something in our union. I will build upon that.”

“Has he shown any enthusiasm for your match?”

“He is a hard man, Samir. It will take time for him to soften.”

Samir shook his head. “I hope that your judgment is rule by your head, and not your heart.”

“The wisest men are governed not by one or the other, but by both.”

“And you?”

She smiled. “I am governed by our Lord as well; do not forget that.”

Samir bowed his head once more. “I hadn’t meant to imply otherwise.” He took another sip from his glass. “I only worry that you won’t have much time to work your way into his confidences. The march to Anaphe will soon begin.” He blew out a sigh, watching the kitten stretch up to a windowsill. “I had thought that I would get my orders regarding the Regent upon your arrival.”

“You were prepared to eliminate him as a threat,” she realized.

“It would be simple enough for him to go the same way Conrad did.”

She sighed, turning to watch the kitten bat at an insect that had worked its way inside her sitting room. “I know that you may think me naïve for holding out hope, but he wouldn’t be the first man – even within Armathia’s ruling houses – to put forth a stony exterior yet devote himself to his wife.” She turned back to meet his eyes. “I have begged a boon of our Lord. I have until his armies are at our walls to bring my husband to the right. If I fail, then we can discuss the implementation of more extreme measures.”

“If anyone can bring him to see the error of his ways, it’s you,” Samir said. “You must know that my faith in you is unwavering.”

She reached forward to press at his hand. “Such declarations are welcome, but unnecessary. Our Lord has told me where your heart stands.”

If the knowledge that she had secondhand knowledge of his inner thoughts disturbed him, it didn’t know. “My men and I won’t disappoint.”

“Nor will I. When the time comes our Lord will not appreciate the actions of any who stand between him and Eramen’s heirs. As much as it would pain me if that should come to pass, I will not be the one to do so.”

“God first,” Samir nodded.

“As it should be.”

With that said Samir stood, bending into another deep bow. “I regret to cut our conversation short, cousin, but I have some council-related duties to attend to, and I suspect that there are others who wish to welcome you into the city.”

“We must keep up appearances,” she agreed.

“Yes. I will be by again later to better brief you on the state of things in the city. What time will meet your leisure?”

“Before the evening meal, if possible.”

“At your command, cousin.”

…

Ehrin fidgeted in her chair, trying to smooth the wrinkles out of her nicest vest. The linen was soft and the light blue of the dye not yet faded; she liked to think that it was difficult to tell that the piping had been replaced twice. She had spent that morning scrubbing the stains out of one of her longer skirts and hoped that the mostly-clean hem hid her worn boots from view.

Although she had done the best she could with what she had, Ehrin supposed that a noblewoman would still see it for a cobbled-together outfit of a commoner: which is exactly what it was. Her thoughts wandered as she waited for her audience to begin, imagining what it would be like to own a gown like the ones she had seen the women in the courtyard wearing; long, silken affairs that stirred with every breeze. She’d get it in the same sky-blue as her vest, of course – her favorite color – and she’d put her hair up just as Sybina’s had been during her visit to _Windjammer_.

 _It would be something_ , she thought with a wistful smile, _to walk the upper levels and have the highborn do aught but sneer at me_.

The door opened, interrupting the fantasy. Ehrin shot to her feet, dipping into a curtsey as the viceroy and her guard entered.

“Forgive the short notice, my Lady, but it’s a mighty important thing,” she said, daring a glance back up at the woman in front of her. The viceroy was, of course, immaculate.

“Yes, my uncle told me as much; though why the Admiral can’t sort it out without my say-so is a mystery to me,” Fiona said, taking her seat. “You’re that sailor-girl, aren’t you? I’ve heard about you.”

Ehrin took a moment to curse Jack for being too busy with his duties to help her sort out the havoc that Anaphe’s stingy Admiral had wreaked upon their provisioning lists. “I suppose that’s me, yeh. My Lady.”

She had heard about Fiona as well, of course. She had never considered how odd it would be to meet members of Jack’s family – but here was his niece, and the resemblance between them was evident. There was something about her eyes, as well – sharp and aware – that made her think of the man she’d considered a brother for the better part of her life. Still, Lady Fiona’s appearance surprised her. Having heard about many of her exploits, Ehrin had always pictured her as older, harder. She hadn’t expected such a young, sweet face on Anaphe’s acting viceroy.

“Captain Callum’s daughter?” the guard asked from the doorway. “You’re the purser?”

“I handle the provisioning. Our Mate’s the supercargo.”

“And you’re here about the provisions, then?” Fiona asked, gesturing to the seat across the table.

Ehrin took it without hesitation, sweeping her skirt around her boots to hide their worn edges. “We’ve had a hard time getting what we need from the harbormaster, my Lady. He says the Admiral won’t give him leave to fully kit us out without special orders on account of the cost and all. I told him that our papers promised they’d be reimbursed by the crown, but he’s being a bit cagey about it.”

“He won’t take my uncle’s signature?”

“I spoke to him myself, my Lady; it seems he’s worried that Armathia doesn’t understand how tight things are over here.”

Fiona took the packet of papers Ehrin handed across the table to her, scanning their contents. “That still doesn’t explain why he’s toeing the line of disobeying a direct order from a Steward.” She glanced back up at Ehrin. “Did he have an answer to that?”

Ehrin clamped down on the urge to laugh. “I don’t think the Admiral felt the need to answer to _me_ , my Lady.”

“Is that so?” Fiona’s face clouded over. For the first time, Ehrin could see some of the steel in the otherwise-gentle girl’s frame. “Is this utter waste of time crossing my desk because he has a quarrel with your position as purser of a crown-commissioned vessel?”

“I think that about sums it up, my Lady.”

“Illen give me strength,” Fiona muttered. “Did he say aught about it to your face?”

“To be fair, my Lady, I’m not usually the one who handles such matters when we’re on the mainland. We know how things are and all, so one of the boys will go in my stead. He was surprised to find me knocking on his door this morning. He’s never heard of me before, I don’t think, and didn’t trust my figures as a result.”

“You’ll find that I have a sore spot for altercations like this one,” Fiona glowered. From the doorway, the guard let out a grunt of agreement. “Perhaps I should pay the Admiral a visit in person.”

Ehrin shrugged. “It’s nice of you to come to my defense, my Lady, but it’d be a waste of your time. When he sees your mark on the line he’ll grumble for a while about women being bad luck aboard vessels, but he’ll have to give me what I asked for regardless.”

“How horrid,” Fiona murmured.

Ehrin shrugged. “He’s a prick, my Lady; that’s all there is to it.”

She heard the gross impropriety as soon as it left her mouth, wincing with embarrassment over her loose tongue. She was surprised when a laugh burbled out of Fiona’s throat, complemented by the guard’s undignified snort of amusement. “Did you just call him a—”

“Prick, my Lady, yes I did,” Ehrin replied, relieved that she had caused no offense.

Fiona dissolved into helpless giggles. “Gods, if only I could be so blunt in the council.”

“I daresay it wouldn’t make you very popular, my Lady.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “They’ve already tried to kill me once – how much more unpopular can I get?”

Ehrin bit back a laugh. She was suddenly very sorry to be leaving for the West so soon; perhaps in some other lifetime she might have persuaded Jack to introduce them as friends rather than Lady and subject.

“Illen willing you won’t find out, my Lady.”

“Is that what you do, then?” Fiona asked, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hands. “They assume that you are incompetent and make your job more difficult as a result, and you just call them for an idiot and get on with our day?”

“What more can I do? I can’t argue with them. I need them to give me what I want or I can’t do my job at all.” She cocked her head, regarding Fiona for a moment. “Do you get your share of grief as well, my Lady?”

“One might say that. Perhaps I’ll borrow from your repertoire of invectives.”

Ehrin shrugged. “If it helps, my Lady. Sometimes it’s nice to be able to say something back, even if not to them.”

“Don’t you struggle to hold onto your temper?” she asked.

“Sometimes. But there will always be sailors like that, and it is what it is – they’ll be making noise about women on vessels and the like until they’re on the Ship of the East and realize they’d best bite their tongue before Captain Illen.”

“Oh, to be a fly on that wall,” Fiona sighed.

“Could be worse, though. Most see that I do my job well and that’s all they care about.”

“That’s a victory in and of itself, if they’ll admit that.”

“Eh,” Ehrin waved a hand. “Not all of them. But you can’t let the bastards get you down, my Lady; they’ll shoot their mouths off to whoever will listen.”

Fiona smiled. “Isn’t that the truth?” She turned her attention back to the documents before her, leafing through them until she found the page she was meant to sign. “Are you certain you don’t want me to visit with the Admiral?”

“Oh no, my Lady – your signature will be more than enough. He thought he was so very clever by ordering me to obtain it; I’m sure he doesn’t realize that I’ve been sailing with your uncle since I was a little chit, and wasn’t above using that connection to get an audience with you this very afternoon. When I return not two hours after he sent me off on a wild goose chase . . . oh, it’ll be well worth it.”

“That’s brilliant,” Fiona smiled, signing her name with a flourish.

“Small rebellions, my Lady.”

Fiona pressed her father’s ring into a drop of wax, closing the provisioning request with yet another seal next to the original. Ehrin stood as they waited for the wax to dry. The movement was less graceful than she had intended, and the scabbard of the cutlass beneath her skirt thumped against the leg of the table. Startled, Fiona looked up from the papers, eyes falling upon the leather-wrapped hilt that sat against Ehrin’s hip.

“Is that . . . a sword?” she asked, surprised.

“Er.” A glance toward the door confirmed Ehrin’s suspicion that she now had the guard’s undivided attention. “Yes it is, my Lady.” She felt as though she was watching the viceroy’s assessment of her change before her very eyes.

“What a life you must lead,” Fiona sighed.

“I could say the same to you, my Lady.”

Fiona’s lips pulled into a smile at that. “I suppose you can at that.” She held up the sealed request for Ehrin to take, wax seal now dry. “Best of luck in your errand today.”

“Thank you, my Lady.” Ehrin curtseyed, knowing the girl’s words for the dismissal that they were. With a deferent bob in the guardsman’s direction she slipped out of the room, clutching the provisioning request to her vest.

She let out a brief sigh of relief as the door swung shut behind her, a slow smile spreading across her face. She turned in the direction of the Admiral’s office, whistling, with a spring in her step.

The look on his face when she turned up again was likely to be the highlight of her afternoon.

…

It wasn’t difficult to find her uncle, even after he had slipped from the room and out into the balmy night. If she focused hard enough on his signature she could just make out the hum of his thoughts above the din of the crowd gathered in the hall. As always his thoughts moved too quickly to latch onto any one in particular, but over the past few days she had grown accustomed to how different his sounded from others and used the difference to track him out to the balcony.

She searched the length of the space as her eyes adapted to the darkness, catching sight of his profile tucked behind a climbing vine in the corner.

“You found me,” he said, turning away from the ocean to regard her.

“I can hear you thinking,” she admitted.

“You’ve been meeting with Gabriel, then.”

“Twice already, yes. He’s very kind, and knows all there is to know about an enchantment like mine. Did you know that he even follows a code for how and when to use his talent?”

“He would, I suppose. He’s one of the best men I know,” Arden said. “What code does he honor?”

“It’s his own,” she said, resting her elbows on the railing before them, staring out at waters lit silver by the reflection of the moonlight. “Mostly he tries to avoid prying, I think. That’s how I learned to follow you.”

“Through _not_ prying?” Arden raised a brow.

“Sort of. Gabe said that there were some people he could read without effort, and that they were the hardest to block out for the sake of preserving their privacy. He told me that some people are the exact opposite, and are difficult to read even when they don’t have their guard up. You’re one of them. If he tries to listen all he hears is a hum; he says you think differently from other people and that’s why.”

“Is that what you hear when you listen?” he asked.

“Just the hum, yes. Gabe says it’s a little bit like what he hears when someone is guarding their thoughts.” She paused. “Is it true that you have a perfect memory?”

“Did Gabe mention that as well?”

Fiona frowned, hoping she hadn’t said something she shouldn’t have. “He thinks it’s why he can’t hear you. He says you’re taking in too much at once for him to pick out any details.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Did you follow that jumbled hum of thoughts out here, then?”

She nodded. “It wasn’t so hard. I was wondering where you had gone.” She cast a sideways glance at him. “Are you hiding out here?”

“You could say that.” He cracked a smile.

“Why? I’d have thought you would stay inside with the Regent; the ball was meant to welcome him and his wife to Anaphe,” she said, watching his face with care.

“I don’t mean it as a slight to your hospitality,” he defended. “I did stay for some of the music, which had come highly recommended to me.”

“Do you not like such events?” she asked, furrowing her brow. She couldn’t fathom why someone would choose to avoid such a spectacular party.

“That’s part of it,” he admitted. “I find I’m not in the right mindset for festivities with my departure mere days away. I’ve much on my mind.”

That was no exaggeration: she could feel the _worry, anticipation, distraction_ swirling off of him in little eddies. “You’re worried about your journey,” she observed.

Arden turned away, looking westward for a long moment. “You could say that.”

“I’m sorry you’re leaving so soon.”

“I am as well.”

“I had hoped . . .” she sighed. “When I first got word that a Steward was traveling through the isles with the Prince, I knew it had to be you. I had hoped that you would finish with your business there, then come to Anaphe to take up the staff. It was so hard holding the city without any outside aid.”

“Yet you did a fine job of it,” he pointed out.

“I suppose. It’s a bittersweet feeling, now that the staff has passed. I was so afraid of making a misstep, but it was nice to have work to do.”

“I wouldn’t let yourself feel that sweet relief just yet,” Arden said. “After all, Val hasn’t assumed the title of viceroy.”

Fiona frowned. “He’s here, isn’t he? The ceremony itself is just a formality.”

“Not at all. From what I understand he has no intention of taking the staff from you.”

Fiona blinked. “What do you mean?”

“We are preparing for war to come to our borders. Anaphe needs a viceroy who will stay with her people to the end of the conflict. If the threat bypasses Anaphe for some other location – or Anaphe repels the threat only to have it move towards Armathia – Valory will be called away.”

Fiona gaped. “I couldn’t lead my city in war!”

“You’re capable of more than you suspect – we have already seen evidence of that,” Arden reminded her. “Besides, the staff ties you to our House, and Valory will be desperately in need of a Steward in the coming weeks.”

“He already has one,” she protested.

“I’m not sure I’ll be doing him much good when I’m upriver,” he remarked. “He needs someone here with him when important decisions are made.”

“What do I know? I’m no advisor.” Her voice shook as she said the words.

“You say that, but I don’t think you’re considering the sort of advice that Valory will solicit from you. He’ll not come to you with questions about battle strategy; in that arena he needs little aid. What he lacks is knowledge of the local people, the councilors, their personalities, their loyalties. He doesn’t know which parts of your province suffer from drought, how many of your cavalry are veterans, or whether or not a press would be well received.”

“But that’s—” she protested.

“What, simple? To the contrary: it’s a Steward’s job to keep track of such details so the Regent doesn’t have to. Perhaps you weren’t trained from birth to take up this role, but that matters naught. You know your people, Valory does not. He needs you.”

“Many of the councilors will not be happy to learn that I have kept my position,” she said.

“Do they worry over your inexperience?”

She let out a halfhearted huff of laughter. “I suspect they’d worry less about inexperience if I were my father’s son instead of his daughter.”

“You’ll find that Valory will have little tolerance for such antics; to him competence is competence and that’s the end of it. He cares not whether you’re in skirts or trousers so long as you can point out which of the councilors are most likely to be Dramorian sympathizers.”

She shook her head. “You would be better at this than I. You’re . . . I just wish you could stay. I’d have liked you to teach me what you know. And . . . I suppose I’d have liked to know you as well.”

“I’d have liked that, too,” he said. She could feel the heaviness in his heart. “I wish I could have been an uncle to you – either now or in time gone by – but it’s no use to wish for all of those years to have gone differently: they couldn’t have.”

Fiona realized that he was referring to the years that followed his decision to leave Armathia, and was surprised that he had brought it up of his own volition after endless ignored queries on her end. “Why not?” she asked, hoping that he would finally see fit to answer.

Arden leaned heavily against the railing, eyes trained once more on the wide swath of moonlight painted across the sea. After a few minutes she had begun to think of giving up on the question and returning to the hall when he surprised her by beginning to speak.

“Your grandfather and I have never seen eye-to-eye. Even as adults we are very different, though that went doubly so when I was young.”

“Because of your enchantment?” Fiona asked.

“Because of everything,” he said. “Have you corresponded much with him and Verne?”

“A little,” she ventured. “He seems quite firm, even by letter. Lord Verne was less so, but still formal. Stiff, perhaps.”

“Yes, that’s Verne – and my father as well. I think my father is the harder man between them, but they are alike in that way. Your father was different; a friendlier spirit than any of the rest of us.”

“He was always so jovial. Others used to remark on it all the time.”

“That was Conrad. It’s part of the reason why he was sent here; he was a difficult man to dislike.” Arden swallowed. She felt a matching lump in her throat as well; she missed her father terribly.

“What happened?” she asked, voice small.

“Given the choice, I think my father would have wished for me to be like Verne. He was knighted young. I’m sure you’ve heard of his heroism during his campaigns.”

“Father used to tell me a story about the Sarian swamplands, and how Verne saved the King’s life,” she said. “Grandfather was also knighted, wasn’t he?”

“He was.” Arden blew out a long sigh. “It wouldn’t have been dishonorable to walk in their footsteps; they are both great men. Yet for all of that, I was cut from a different cloth. It was difficult for my father to accept. Sometimes I wonder whether he thought I was being difficult on purpose. As for my brothers, I think they found it hard to understand my perspective.”

“Father once told me that you would go days without speaking when you were little. He said he never knew why, or what to do.” She knew it was true by her uncle’s reaction; the memory was painful for him. “He said that some of the councilors used to call you Miran’s ‘odd boy’, and that he and Verne would always get angry when it was said but could do little to stop it.”

“I had some attributes that, each taken separately, would have been seen for what they were. But together – a perfect memory, the delayed development of a powerful enchantment, the nightmares of a Seer without the corresponding increase in strength – it’s easy to see why they thought something was wrong with me.”

Fiona frowned. “Yet it would also have been easy for them to learn the truth of it.”

“Perhaps not,” Arden allowed. “It was difficult for me to relate to others, and the scorn and contempt that I drew when I made a misstep only encouraged me to withdraw further. By the time some of the symptoms gained explanations, I was already considered somehow impaired.”

“Like the people who are born with damaged minds?” she asked.

“Rather like that, yes. I aged differently than other boys, and didn’t share many of their pursuits and interests. They attributed it to illness – either physical or moral – rather than to my enchantment, for my enchantment was of little consequence until I was your age.”

“Surely when your second enchantment started to develop it served as an explanation,” she insisted.

“You’ve only just experienced how easy it is to miss the signs, especially early on,” Arden shook his head. “I didn’t understand what was going on at the time. Even if I had figured it out sooner, I doubt it would have changed things: I’ve always had a stubborn streak in me. I was determined to do things on my terms. That won me little favor with my father or with the court.”

“What happened when you realized what was happening to you?” she asked. She felt a wave of deep sadness roll off of him.

“I was thrilled: I thought I’d found the answer to all of my difficulties. You’ll find that enchantments can be a subjective thing before they manifest, however, and I wasn’t taken at my word.”

She bit her lip. “Is that why you left?”

“I left because your grandfather and I had a terrible falling out. Things were said that . . . I suppose we both still carry them around to this day. It was not . . . sometimes I doubt my decision to leave, but I’ve begun to let that go of late. It couldn’t have been any other way. I did what I needed to do.”

“Because your father wouldn’t let you develop your second enchantment?” she asked.

“He thought I was making it up,” Arden replied, voice flat. “I had been ordered to military service that I was not fit or properly trained for. He thought I had concocted a story to shirk my duties, and considered me to be a blemish upon his House as a result. We fought over it; my orders stood.”

“But you didn’t go,” she surmised.

“No. I deserted.”

“That’s why you disappeared,” she breathed. “Your desertion must have been kept quiet, though: not even my father told me that’s what happened. Did he not know?”

“I don’t know if I was labeled as such, but the court certainly would have had that perception. It was dishonorable – there are no two ways around that – but when the day came that I made that decision, I had been put into a position where it was the only reasonable option left open to me.”

“Is that why you stayed away for so long? Because you thought you had been labeled as a deserter?” She abhorred calling him such a thing; it was clear that it did not fit him. After only a few days she loved and admired her uncle, and hated the thought that others hadn’t seen the potential in him when he was her age.

“Not quite. I cared little what the court thought; I fear I’ve never given due consideration to matters of reputation.” He let out a long sigh. “I stayed away because I feared that Verne and Conrad saw me the same way that our father did – as a deserter – and I knew I couldn’t bear their scorn. I admired them very much. I still do.”

“You thought they didn’t want to see you again?” Her incredulity drew Arden’s gaze away from the sea.

“I did. When I left I never thought I would go back, though as the years passed by I realized that my position aboard _Windjammer_ was only temporary. I started considering my return more and more, though I had no idea how I would go about it. The idea of showing up in Anaphe and asking for an audience seemed absurd.”

She wondered how many times he had considered the idea before casting it away, and felt their combined regret mingling in the space between them. “You could have. He waited for you.”

“I know,” he said, ashamed. “I know that now. I didn’t know it back then, and back then . . . I also thought that I had time.” A grieved, terrible nose escaped from his throat. He looked away, but not before she saw the wetness in his eyes. “The day I met Val again, he offered to come back here with me to have an audience with your father. I was too afraid, and passed up the offer. And now—”

He couldn’t finish the thought. Fiona felt the heart-wrenching _grief, guilt, regret_ pouring off of him. With a choked back sob she wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight. After a moment he returned the embrace, laying his cheek upon the top of her head.

“I’m glad you’re finally here,” she whispered, words muffled by his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry.”

“No,” she protested, “don’t be. You’re making things right again, aren’t you? I know you are.”

“I’m trying.”

“That’s all we can do, isn’t it?” she asked, releasing him and stepping back. He was dry-eyed once more, the press off his feelings lessening until she could barely feel them. He let out a quiet ‘hmph’ of breath.

“I sought to tell you about our family, that you might better understand the circumstances you find yourself in. Instead it seems it is you who have given comfort to me,” he sighed. “That was not what I had intended.”

“You told the story I’ve been asking for,” Fiona countered. “May I repeat it to my sisters? They’ve had so many questions since your arrival.”

“Of course.” He rested his forearms on the railing once more. “I’m glad to have had some time to speak with them, yet I couldn’t imagine how I would broach this subject. They’re lovely young women, but so different in character from you or I.”

Fiona knew what he was trying to say. “They’ll understand why you did what you did,” she promised. “I’ll make sure of it. Father spoke more to me than them of matters like that, especially after mother passed. Sometimes I think it’s because I am the oldest, but other times I think I sought such discussions out.”

“You have a bright spirit. He would have seen that.”

She nodded, resolving not to tear up again. “I miss him,” she whispered. His arm landed around her shoulders in a loose hug. “I miss my mother. I’m trying to take care of my sisters through this but I hardly have the time to see them these days. I feel like I’m neglecting my duty to my family in favor of my duty to my country.”

“That’s a hard thing,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she breathed. “So you see, it has been a relief to finally meet you. It’s not just the three of us anymore, even if you won’t be here for much longer. And who knows? Maybe someday I can meet my grandfather and Lord Verne.”

“You could see the other twin city,” Arden supplied.

She hummed in reply.

They fell quiet, each following the patterns of their own thoughts in the still night. She listened to the music that trickled in from the dance hall while watching her uncle, wondering what sort of things were tumbling around in his head, whirring so fast that all she could hear was that distant hum. She wondered what it was about the ball that he so disliked, thinking at the same time about how elegant and lovely the Princess had looked while dancing with the Regent. She wished she could do the same and dance with Malcolm, but his post was outside the hall, not on the dance floor. They would have to save such things for their late-night walks in the gardens, far away from prying eyes.

“You can go back inside if you wish. I won’t be upset by it,” he murmured, breaking into her reverie.

“What are you thinking about, out here?” she asked, ignoring his statement.

“I—” _Embarrassment._ “I’m working on conjugating Westernese verbs.”

“What?”

“There’s a text I’ve been reading. I’ll need to be more familiar with it before we reach Zaránd,” he replied.

She chose not to comment on his decision to stand outside a party while daydreaming about linguistics; it was too strange an impulse for her to understand. “Is this one of the books that’s in your head?” she asked.

“They all are, to a greater or lesser extent.”

She cocked her head. “What’s it like, being able to remember everything by rote?”

Arden shrugged. “Convenient, I suppose. Distracting at times. It’s difficult to say: it’d be like me asking you what it’s like to be able to read. I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t.”

“Oh.”

He must have known that it wasn’t the answer she was looking for, because he continued on. “It’s like your enchantment – or any other talent, really. Having one matters far less than how one chooses to use it.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” she admitted. “After my first meetings with Gabe, I wonder if it’s even right to use mine the way I’ve imagined. I don’t know how to make use of it, or really, even how to make sense of it. I still can’t believe this is all happening.”

“Second talents are like that,” he agreed. “Ask Val about his sometime; it’s a good story.”

“He’s a telekinetic, isn’t he?” she asked, voice pitched low. “What’s that like? I’ve heard it’s incredible to watch one work.”

“He uses it very rarely,” Arden replied. “I’ve only ever seen him at work a handful of times. He uses his Healing talent far more often, now that he knows he has one.”

“Why not use such a gift?” she wondered.

Arden nodded towards the doorway behind her. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

In retrospect she realized that the Regent’s signature had gotten stronger, signaling his approach. Arden must have been more aware of it than she, for Valory appeared on the balcony mere moments later. He turned towards them without hesitation, squinting to make out where they stood in the dark.

“My ears were burning,” he said, lips turned up at one corner.

“I—my Lord,” Fiona stammered. He must have heard some of their conversation.

“My niece is interested in your enchantment,” Arden put in as Valory joined them, setting the glass he carried down on the wide railing.

“Which one?”

“You know very well which one,” Arden rolled his eyes, turning to lean back against the railing.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Fiona said, darting glances between them.

“There’s not much to know,” Valory shrugged. “The enchantment is rare, but that doesn’t make it so mysterious. I can move things as long as they are inanimate and within a certain range of shapes and sizes. Like most enchantments, distance is a factor as well.”

“Uncle told me you don’t use it often,” she said, wondering if she would have been so bold to continue a conversation on enchantments before the discovering that her own was an oddity as well.

“He’s correct.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I find that reliance on telekinesis makes a man lazy,” Valory replied.

“Don’t you have to practice to stay strong?”

“I’m well past my talent’s maturation. At my age, it’s rare for an enchantment to weaken from disuse. When I was younger I was forced to exercise it more, though I tried not to grow dependent upon it,” he admitted.

“Another code,” Fiona nodded. “I was telling Uncle Arden that Gabriel has his own code for using his enchantment. It seems that you do, as well.”

Valory made a noise that might have been a laugh, but she couldn’t quite tell. “I suspect Gabe’s code is far more honorable than my own. I’m not above frivolous use of my enchantment, nor was I when I was younger.” The smile he had been battling finally spread across his face. “Certainly not then.”

“Val made a lot of mischief with his enchantment as a young man,” Arden added.

“How? Will you show me?” she asked.

He was about to refuse: she could tell. Something changed as he looked from her to her uncle, however: some of the _fondness_ that she had felt between them when they first arrived in the city. She watched, fascinated, as Valory’s glass tilted at an angle, liquid sloshing nearly to the rim. It remained suspended in that impossible position long enough for her to inspect it, eyes darting back and forth between the glass and his face. It took concentration and effort – that much she could tell – but he bore the strain without much difficulty.

The glass moved again as she watched, rocking back and forth a few times before lurching to one side. The liquid inside the glass splashed out, sprinkling towards Arden, the largest droplets sliding inside his collar and down the back of his neck. Arden let out a yelp, jumping in surprise.

Fiona was no less startled than her uncle; Valory had always seemed so old and staid to her. It was difficult to reconcile this display of playful humor with all that she knew about the man. Despite her confusion, she forced herself to put away ruminations over the Regent’s outward persona for the time being.

“Wine, my Lord?” she asked, gesturing to the still-tilted glass.

Her suggestion had Arden pulling a face; wine would stain even the deep blue linens of the House of Stewards. She began to giggle at his discomfited squirming, which was made all the funnier by the press of Valory’s inward amusement.

“Are you laughing, Fiona?” he asked. “A traitor to your own House?”

“Laughing? No, not at all,” she lied. “Besides, Uncle, I was mistaken: I don’t think there was wine in that glass.”

“It was water,” Valory confirmed.

“It had better be,” Arden threatened, craning his neck to check for stains. “For the record, I believe Fiona asked you to demonstrate your _talent_ : not your propensity for mischief.”

Valory’s lips pulled into an impish grin. “Come now, Arden – you’re a sailor. Surely you’re not flinching at the touch of a few drops of water.”

Fiona’s giggles subsided as she confronted a new puzzle. “How did you move water? That’s Uncle’s enchantment.”

“I didn’t. Just as you can splash water out of a glass when you’re holding the stem in your hand, I can do so when I’m holding the stem with my thoughts,” he said, leaning against the railing once more.

The glass tilted upright with a rattle. A mere moment later, the last of its contents splashed out. Fiona sprung backwards out of the way, swallowing a laugh as the water hit Valory square in the face.

“Water, Val?” Arden gloated. “You know full well that’s a dangerous game to start.”

Fiona bit her lip, wondering what the Regent’s reaction would be; despite having started the game in good faith, she couldn’t imagine that he would be pleased with the results. She was startled by grin that spread across his face.

“Well done,” he said, water dripping from his nose and eyelashes.

“And very well deserved – hey!” Arden pulled away laughing as Valory tried to wipe his face on his shoulder.

“Come now, Steward-mine – denying me aid?”

Arden cuffed his arm. “You started it, as I recall.”

“Fulfilling the request of our gracious host; surely you can’t grudge me that.” Valory affected a formal Armathian accent, making Fiona squeak with giggles once more. He grabbed Arden by the belt, dragging him close enough to dry his face on the high blue linen collar.

“Gods, do you see what we Stewards have to put up with, Fiona?” Arden laughed, pushing Valory back towards the bannister. He must have seen the puzzlement warring with mirth in her features, for he added, “Don’t let the outward demeanor fool you; he has the most mischievous sense of humor out of anyone I know.”

He was right, of course – she had never expected to see the Regent and her uncle laugh together like two little boys after playing a childhood prank. Yet beneath that she felt that same confusing _want_ and _desire_ that she had first encountered in her sitting room following their arrival. It seemed odd to her, mixing friendship and service with _that_. She didn’t know what to make of it.

She wondered whether or not he ever laughed with the Princess as he did now, trading rapid-fire quips and lowbrow humor. She doubted it. As elegant as they had looked twirling around the hall together in step, she hadn’t seen him share a single smile with his wife. Indeed, she couldn’t remember witnessing any lighthearted moments between the Regent and anyone other than her uncle.

Fiona couldn’t understand why he would withhold such joy from his wife – especially now that she knew that he had it in him. Could it be that her uncle alone knew how to draw out the Regent’s deeply-hidden humor? What would it be like when her uncle left, and Valory was left without a friend who was so like him in spirit? Fiona’s teeth worried at her lower lip. Perhaps this would be her role as she continued to carry the staff: supporting the man that lived and breathed beneath the weight of such a heavy title.

“Alright Val, fine – I’ll come back inside.” Arden rolled his eyes. “Fiona?”

“Go ahead, Uncle: I’ll be just a moment.”

She watched them depart, aware that it was the Regent’s request alone that had drawn her uncle back to the festivities. She dropped her elbows onto the bannister, turning her eyes seaward. If it was amiable company the Regent needed, she would provide it: but she knew it to be a tall order. There was so much about him that she didn’t understand. Yet despite the stark differences between their ages, stations, and personalities, she knew she would have to be a friend to him. With her uncle leaving for the West, she could very well be the only one he would have until _Windjammer_ ’s return.

…

“Gods, I think I pulled something,” Arden winced, rubbing at his back. “The things you do to me.”

Valory snorted into the pillow, turning until one eye peeked out over its edge. “Are you certain it’s not from your attempt to walk across the quarterdeck on your hands in response to Jonah’s challenge?”

“Don’t go blaming this on Jonah, now,” Arden said, rolling on top of him. Valory wrinkled his nose; they both stank of rum. “It’s not Jonah’s insatiable appetite that kept us up the whole night.”

“You say that as though you _weren’t_ the one to wake me from my last nap to cater to your needs.”

Valory let out an undignified noise as Arden’s fingers trailed up either side of his ribcage, wriggling to the other side of the bunk in an attempt to escape. Arden slid off of him with a muttered ‘oof’, giving up on his quest to send Valory into spasmodic fits of laughter; a feat he’d discovered was possible earlier that night during an unguarded moment several rums in.

He reached out to pull Arden back towards him, trying to fit their limbs together into some approximation of a comfortable pose. He laid his swimming head in the crook of Arden’s shoulder, lipping a brief kiss to the side of his throat and throwing an arm over his ribcage. Arden’s chest rose and fell as he heaved a contented sigh, stretching out on his back.

“Remind me never to revel with your crew when that quantity of rum is involved ever again,” Valory murmured.

“You can’t have bottle ache already,” Arden reasoned.

“No, but the headache is threatening and will only grow worse as the sun rises.”

“Self-inflicted wounds.”

“You may be twenty years my junior, but I wager you’ll be singing a different tune in a few hours’ time,” Valory said.

“You’re probably right. Then again, I won’t be sitting through a council meeting midmorning, either,” he grinned.

Valory socked him in the shoulder. “Rub some more salt in it, why don’t you?”

“Yet I’d gladly sit through an Anaphean council meeting with bottle ache if it meant not leaving,” Arden said, suddenly serious, shimmying down on the bunk and turning until they were face-to-face. “You know that, right?”

Valory’s lips flattened into a frown. “It’s going to be strange without you there beside me, buried in your books and making snide remarks under your breath.”

Arden cracked a small smile. “I’m sure Fiona has a plethora of snide remarks to pull from. She seems the kind.”

“Hmmm, perhaps. I have noticed that I draw increasingly stern stares from the Captain of the Guard each time I approach her outside of an official capacity, however.”

“Ah,” Arden nodded, “you noticed that as well, did you? I think it’s mutual. It’s a shame, because I know my brother had begun to think about matching her with one of Edmund’s nephews.”

“It seems your niece and I have something in common, then,” Valory sighed. “She’ll be glad to learn that I plan on holding off on such an arrangement until after we know more about the threat to the city – unless other orders come my way, of course.”

“Poor girl,” Arden murmured.

Valory hummed out a response, reaching up to run his fingers down Arden’s chest. He and Fiona were in similar positions in a way, but he didn’t flatter himself by thinking he had it quite so difficult. Wherever she was in those predawn hours, he highly doubted she had the luxury of lying beside her man.

 _Yet her Captain will still be in Anaphe tomorrow, and your Steward will not_ , a voice in the back of his mind taunted, reminding him of Arden’s imminent departure. _Arden will be gone for months_. The painful knot that had taken up residence behind his breastbone tightened further. He pressed his face back into the pillow, shoving thoughts of the coming day down ruthlessly, relegating them to the underbelly of his mind where they would remain, lurking in the shadows of his conscious thoughts.

“What is it?” Arden asked.

Valory lifted his head from the pillow, dropping it back on Arden’s shoulder once more. “Nothing. What time is it?”

“Past four bells; they rang during your last kip. A little after five, perhaps.”

He realized how quiet it was; something he hadn’t considered until then. The men must have gone to their bunks some time earlier. “We said we wouldn’t sleep, but time has passed far too quickly even still.”

“You could stow away,” Arden offered, half-serious, fingers winding into Valory’s hair. “Gods know I’ll need the help when we go West. I’ve no idea what I’m doing, Val. I may be a Steward by birth, but I’m a sailor by trade.”

“I’m sure you’ve done enough research on the matter that such a statement is no longer true,” he remarked, voice muffled by Arden’s shoulder. “You’ll do a better job of it than I ever would; you understand their quarrel with us better than I.” At Arden’s snort, he amended, “Alright, I _understand_ , but I suspect you’re more sympathetic to their plight. You’ll be able to find common ground where I would only find contention.”

Arden sighed. “I don’t know about that. I can’t even get the Commodore to talk to me – how will I sway the other tribes? What will I do if I can’t convince the Commodore to support a treaty before I reach Belen, let alone Zaránd?”

“The Commodore is not a stupid man. With Zathár’s growing presence in the East, he will see evidence of the kind of ally he has made for himself.”

“Will it matter to him?” Arden wondered.

“Let’s hope so.” He felt Arden’s fingers still against his scalp. “What is it?”

“You know how I worry,” Arden murmured. “If I don’t turn them all to our side and they continue to squabble, we won’t get enough men for our march to Anaphe.”

“I suspect Zathár’s persuasiveness drew upon the Commodore’s vision of a unified Madesta. If you play on that, you may be able to prevent any of the factions from taking petty action against one another,” Valory suggested.

“Yet even if I convince the tribes to turn from Zathár and join us in protecting Anaphe . . . suppose they’re not ready to march? It could take weeks to muster their forces. What if I’m too late?”

Valory squeezed Arden’s waist. “You won’t be.”

“Val.”

Arden’s tone made it clear that he was not in the mood for platitudes. Valory lifted his head, propping himself up on an elbow to meet Arden’s eyes. “We knew this undertaking would be fraught with uncertainty when we decided to propose it to the council.”

“We did, yes – but now I’m facing the reality of a departure that will take place in a few hours’ time, and all I can think about is how I’m leaving you here in a city that may be under siege by the time I return,” he said, voice nearly cracking on the words. “What if—”

Valory kissed him, swallowing his words with his mouth. “No more ‘what ifs’,” he said, lips sliding against Arden’s. “I’ll be here waiting for you when you arrive.”

“Val—” Arden’s hands came up to frame his face. “Promise me.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

Arden nodded, swallowing. “And I’ll return.”

“You had better.”

In the distance they could hear the faint ringing of bells: Anaphe’s cathedral tolling out the hour. Arden started when he heard the sixth chime. “Gods, I was an hour off—it’s nearly dawn.”

Valory glanced toward Arden’s port light; it faced the dock, and therefore served to make them poor judges of time. “We have a little while yet.”

“The city will soon be stirring with preparations to see me off,” Arden reminded him. “You’ll miss breaking your fast with Sybina if you don’t go soon.”

He shrugged. “I can’t say that I care all that much.”

Arden made an exasperated noise. “You know you have to keep up appearances better than that.”

Valory rolled over, pressing his knees between Arden’s and fitting their bodies against one another, lowering himself onto Arden’s chest. He leaned their foreheads together, meeting Arden’s eyes. “The Reckoning is upon us; who knows what the coming months will bring? To the locker with appearances: I’ll not rush out now and deny us this last morning because of a treaty I was thrust into twenty years ago.”

“You must be careful, treaty or no treaty. You’re being watched.”

“I know,” Valory murmured. He stayed like that for some time, memorizing the lines of Arden’s face: the jut of his nose, the copper in his beard, the faint creases at the corners of his eyes. He wanted to be able to call up this image in his mind’s eye at will during the long months his Steward would be away.

Arden’s thoughts seemed to run along a similar trajectory, for a hand reached up to trace his features, fingertips outlining his lips, his brow, his scar, the bridge of his nose. His other arm wrapped around Valory’s waist, pulling him in close.

“I’m not crushing you like this?”

“No,” Arden said, fingertips running around the corner of his jaw, “I rather like it.”

Valory let his head drop to the pillow, lips pressed to Arden’s pulse point. It wouldn’t do to get too comfortable; he knew that Arden was right, and they would soon have to prepare for the events of the day. Necessity, however, did not make matters any easier to bear.

It was the sound of Ehrin arriving in the galley and starting the meal some minutes later that finally roused them from their pose.

“She’s not making any attempt at subtlety, is she?” Valory asked, rubbing his nose along the line of Arden’s jaw.

“It’s her retaliation for having to be up early on days like this.”

“I should be getting up as well.”

Arden let out a long sigh, pushing himself up onto his elbows, forcing Valory off to one side. “It’s getting light out. I think you’d prefer to be back within the inner city before the sun rises.”

Valory slithered off of the bunk, casting about for his discarded clothing in the dim light. It was somewhat jarring to see fine garments where he expected the simple linens of his travel clothing; one more testament to how different this morning was than the ones that had come before. Behind him Arden was splashing his face with water from the basin.

They went about the business of readying themselves in silence, thoughts growing heavier as each minute ticked by. Valory found his tunic slung over Arden’s sea chest and tucked it beneath his belt, hoping it didn’t seem as rumpled as he feared. As he fussed with the cuffs his eyes rested upon his vambraces, lying side-by-side atop the stack of papers on Arden’s desk. He snatched them up, whirling around to find Arden still bare-chested. He had been tracking Valory’s progress around the cabin, a sad smile on his lips.

“Come here,” Valory beckoned.

Arden extended a forearm, ready for the ritual that had come to define such mornings. His face transformed with surprise as he registered the details of the insignia stamped into the vambraces Valory held.

“Those are yours.” He pulled his arm back.

Valory met his eyes. “I know.”

“Oh.”

Valory took another half-step forward. “Let me. Please.”

Arden’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, extending his arm once more. “Of course.”

“It’s the closest I’ll be able to get to the West,” Valory said, beginning the task of buckling his vambraces onto Arden’s arms. Before cinching the second buckle, he bent his head low over Arden’s wrist. “Be safe.” With those words he started on the second vambrace, fingers trembling slightly as he worked the small buckles. “They’re old and well worn, but they’ll protect you,” he said, thumb tracing the pulse point before finishing, placing a last kiss to Arden’s wrist and cinching the buckle tight.

Arden remained where he stood for a moment, swaying slightly, before springing to the far side of his cabin where his own vambraces had been discarded the night before. “Roll up your sleeves,” he said, fetching them and returning to Valory’s side. He paused as he fit the first vambrace to Valory’s arm, looking down at the swirling lines of his family’s crest. “You’ll not be able to wear them atop your tunic, you know.”

“I’ll take care,” he promised.

Arden kissed his wrist in response, finishing with the first set of buckles. “Take care with yourself, as well. If our enemies came after Fiona, they’ll come after you.”

“I know. I will.” He held out his other arm, letting Arden fit the newer, stiffer leather to him.

Arden’s lips moved against his wrist as he spoke. “Be safe.”

“With Ranael watching over me on your behalf, I’m sure I will be,” he replied, rolling his sleeves down to conceal the telltale insignia.

Arden fastened the last buckle. “Good.” He turned away, grabbing his own shirt. Pulling it over his head, he added, “I’ll see you as far as the dock, but I have some preparations to make before departure.”

Valory had known this would be the case; they would say their goodbyes when he left for the inner city. The next time they saw one another would be before a crowd, where they would be unable to speak their minds.

By silent agreement he followed Arden out of the cabin and through the salon. They passed the galley where Ehrin kneaded dough for their morning meal, dark circles framing her eyes.

“Miss Ehrin.”

She looked up, pulling her hands from the dough and wiping them off on her apron. “Is this it then?” she asked, moving to the doorway of the galley.

“I’ll return with the others to see you off later.”

“That’s not the same at all,” she said, throwing her arms about his neck. “Hold tight until our return; we’ll have revelry to rival last night’s and then some.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. I’m not sure I could survive any more rum.” He bent to speak in her ear. “Take care of him for me. Please.”

“You know I will.” She stepped back, releasing him. “Off with you then; the sun’s almost up.”

“May the wind be at your back,” he said.

“And at yours.”

As Ehrin returned to her preparations, Valory followed Arden up the companionway to midships. They emerged into grey-blue, predawn light. It would be a hot, muggy day, yet the breeze that ruffled his hair suggested that _Windjammer_ and her crew would be able to make it off the dock in a few hours’ time. Beyond _Windjammer_ ’s beam the docks were deserted; with so many ships out on patrol, the harbor was home to few vessels these days.

He turned to Arden, expecting something – some speech, some string of words. Arden had always been better with them; he had hope that he might rely on Arden’s lead in this as in so many things. That morning, however, Arden shook his head – mute – unable or unwilling to say the words that rang in both of their minds.

Action was Valory’s strong suit. Bypassing words entirely, he surged forward, grabbing Arden by the collar and kissing him _hard_. His stubble-burned lips stung as Arden kissed him back with equal fervor. He felt Arden’s hands come up to hold him in place, fingers digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. He hoped that they would: a tangible reminder that would remain after Arden’s departure. He pulled Arden in for kiss after desperate kiss, fingers fisted white-knuckled in Arden’s shirt, trembling as Arden’s hands moved to clutch his face between them.

He paused for air, forehead pressed against Arden’s, breath coming out ragged against kiss-swollen lips. He cast about for words that still wouldn’t come, struggling to make any noise around the tightness in his throat.

“You shouldn’t tarry.” Arden’s voice cracked on the words. He was right; the clouds over the horizon were streaked pink and orange with the first signs of sunrise.

Valory felt as though a hand had forced its way between his ribs and was squeezing his heart hard enough to burst it. “ _Gods_ this is hard,” he said, voice sounding alien to his own ears.

“Don’t—or I’ll not be able to leave.”

Arden pulled him forward once more into a slow, lingering kiss. Valory forced his trembling fists to open, smoothing down Arden’s chest to rest on his hips. They remained like that for a long time, pressed against one another as the first cocks began to crow. When the cathedral tolled the half-hour they finally pulled apart, Valory turning away before he no longer had the will to.

“I’ll see you soon, then.” He took a few steps towards the gangway, hand landing on the rail.

He heard Arden’s shaky breaths behind him as they both struggled to regain their composure. “Yes,” Arden said, “soon.”

He crossed the gangway, telling himself he wouldn’t look back. He managed to keep his eyes focused ahead of him as he wove towards the chandlery and street beyond, but in the end, it was an order he couldn’t carry out. As he was about to turn the corner and put a row of buildings between them, he dared one last glance back over his shoulder. His resolve nearly melted as he saw Arden’s profile, illuminated by the rising sun, sitting upon the midships housetop with his head in his hands.

Heart clenching, Valory turned away and headed for the city.

…

Sybina had been unhappy with him when he returned, perched in the shared sitting room of their suite as though she sought to catch him red-handed. He dimly recalled her protesting the notion of him reveling with common sailors when he left for the docks the night before, but had paid it little mind at the time. The moment he was through the doorway that morning she wrinkled her nose, pulling away from his dutiful kiss on the hand and informing him that he stank of spirits. It was the most candid she had ever been with him, and any other time he might have deemed such frankness refreshing – especially coming from her. As it was he had terrible bottle-ache and little tolerance for the petulant huff she let out when he ignored her complaints. He spoke hardly a word in greeting to her before going to bathe and change.

He supposed his wretched mood was obvious, for Fiona approached him with caution as they made ready to ride down to the docks and bid farewell to _Windjammer_ and her crew. She was soon occupied by the procession, different from those he had grown accustomed to in Armathia, but grand nevertheless. People from throughout the city and its outlying settlement streamed towards the docks, hoping to catch sight of the so-called ‘Lost Steward’ before the ship’s departure.

Valory cared little for frivolities on most occasions; that was doubly the case this morning. His head pounded furiously with each step his horse took, with each joyful shout from the surrounding crowd, with each sullen stare Sybina cast his way. He kept his eyes trained on the harbor in the distance, watching _Windjammer_ ’s masts grow taller as they descended through the city and turned eastward to the dock upon which he had stood just a few hours prior.

They assembled dockside as they had in Armathia, dismounting and bearing witness as Anaphe’s High Priest read rites and blessed the vessel and her crew for their upcoming journey. Valory felt the knot behind his breastbone tighten further as Arden came to stand at his side while the High Priest spoke. They bowed their heads and touched brows in all the right places, yet Valory knew that Arden’s thoughts were as far from the docks as his own. He kept a cordial distance between them only through the most concerted exercise of effort. Arden’s departure would be harder on him than he could have imagined.

The brief but poignant ceremony passed in a blur, sun rising higher in the sky all the while to beat furiously upon the back of his neck. When the High Priest finally stepped aside to allow them to say their goodbyes it was Fiona who reacted first, approaching her uncle with arms spread wide while Valory clasped arms – for the second time – with Callum and his crew.  The knot in his chest twisted as Lars, Jonah, Niko, and Ehrin came up one-by-one to share their own words with him, entreating him to take care, reminding him once more that somehow over the last few months his circle of friends and confidants had nearly tripled. Behind him he could hear Fiona finishing her goodbyes, moving to stand beside the ever-present Captain Malcolm.

Valory turned back towards Arden, meeting his eyes and finding it suddenly difficult to breathe. He approached his Steward with measured strides, fighting to keep an expression of calm neutrality on his face. His fingertips found the edges of his own vambraces when he reached out to clasp Arden’s forearm.  It did little to alleviate the churning in his gut, though a brief shot of pride flared through him at the knowledge that Arden would wear his armament into Western tribal councils.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke. “May the wind be—”

“Don’t say goodbye,” Arden whispered.

A reel of memories ran through his mind, calling back the vivid image of Arden standing before him in the tower suite the day they had first arrived in Armathia. A bandage had been wound about his neck, hair dripping onto his mismatched clothing. He had made the same quiet entreaty then as he did now.

Valory nodded, swallowing, fingers tightening on Arden’s arm. “Hello, then.”

A tender, sad smile spread across Arden’s face at Valory’s attempt to say this last thing, even within easy earshot of polite company. “Hello, Val.”

Valory nodded, squeezing Arden’s forearm one final time before stepping back. “I’ll be waiting.”

Arden swept into a formal bow for the benefit of those watching before making for the gangway. Valory watched him struggle to keep his focus, fighting the same impulse to look over his shoulder that Valory had caved to that morning.

A flurry of activity arose when Arden’s feet touched the deck; soon enough _Windjammer_ began the process of pulling off the dock. Just as he had in Armathia, Callum ceded the helm to Arden for the sake of appearances. Valory kept his eyes trained on the quarterdeck as lines were loosed and sails trimmed. It was impressive to watch the skill and speed with which the vessel was handled; he tried to keep his thoughts to technical matters as a way of fighting the near-physical pain in his chest. He kept his shoulders back, forcing himself to take deep breaths that didn’t shudder or shake.

Guided by Arden’s expert hand on the helm, _Windjammer_ sprang off of the dock. Valory raised a hand in response to the waving crew, catching the last called ‘goodbyes’ on the breeze. Rounding up towards the wind, _Windjammer_ glided across the deep blue waters of the bay, setting a course towards the lighthouse that would guide them around the shoals.

He was watching the moment that Arden lost the battle and cast a look back over his shoulder. They were still connected by line of sight, but the warm pressure of his enchantment grew fainter and fainter as _Windjammer_ drew further away. Valory watched Arden all the while, until he couldn’t see Arden’s eyes anymore, until he was just a speck of blue on the deck of a vessel that seemed to shrink as it sped towards the mouth of the bay.

It wasn’t until he felt Fiona’s hand on his shoulder that he realized it was time to go: that the goodbyes had been said, that there was naught left for him to do at the docks, that people would start to whisper if he tarried any longer.

His chest felt empty where Arden’s signature had once sat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter in a total frenzy; I've been looking forward to it for so long that I just type-vomited about 13,000 words with minimal effort. (Then I had to edit it and finish all of the scenes, and *that* took forever.) I'd like to say the same thing is happening with the next chapter, but in fact the next chapter is coming out like pulling teeth, so. I'm working on it.
> 
> [2/25/2015: know what else is like pulling teeth? Editing. Editing is like pulling teeth, and then fashioning new ones out of pixie sticks and duct tape.]
> 
> Thank you again to all who dropped by with kudos and comments: despite being a (very obviously) verbose individual, I just do not possess the words to describe how much feedback means to me. So: thanksthanksthanksthanksthanks.


	9. Chapter 9

_The Season of Peace  
Erán the 17; 2422_

_He felt leather straps biting into his shoulders, and realized that he was back on the board. He wasn’t sure how he had gotten there; mere moments earlier he had been fishing with his older brother, lying next to him on the stiff wooden beams of their makeshift raft with a spear in his hand. He fought to sit up but to no avail. The water came trickling into his face next, running into his nose and mouth. The visage of his captor swam before his eyes. It was the same man every time._

_Then the water came again._

Félix started awake, disoriented and confused. He only remembered where he was when, limbs flailing, he felt the tug of the manacle around his ankle. He took a shaky breath, latching onto the beam beneath him to avoid sliding into the bilge. Squinting in the dim light, he looked up to the deck above him just in time for another drizzle of water to catch him in the face. His heart leapt to his throat, mind still fogged by his dream. He scrambled onto a different beam, scooting as far backwards as the manacle would allow. Despite his efforts, the uneven dripping from the leak still pattered next to him, splashing him with each drop. He tucked his chin to his chest, forcing his hitching breath to even out. He had long fought the swell of panic that these situations caused.

He felt himself begin to sweat and fought to control his hammering heart. It was only so bad this time because he had been startled awake, water trickling through from the deck above to drop into his eyes and mouth. If he hadn’t been asleep he would have had time to prepare, to concentrate, to keep his hands from shaking and his lungs from feeling as though he was starving for air.

Another drop splashed at him and his control snapped; feelings of terror and helplessness pulled him under. He took great gulps of air, chest heaving with effort. Although he tried to keep his focus on his surroundings, part of his mind was stuck in a different place and time, reacting as though it was not _Windjammer_ ’s hold he sat in. It didn’t matter that he was warm and dry; the splatter of water that awakened him from slumber had sent him back, and he knew with horrifying certainty that he was going to drown.

It only ever lasted a few minutes, but always felt so _real_ ; the sensations enveloped him and left him half-deaf to all else going on around him. The sound of waves slapping against the hull, the rain pattering on the deck, the slap and snap of sails and lines: all of it lay muted and dull – a backdrop for the wild spinning of his mind. Caught up in his struggle for control, he didn’t register the sound of the hatch opening, nor of familiar footsteps on the ladder.

When Ehrin appeared before him he felt his panic escalate further, anger welling within him at the resurgence of his most hated weakness. He tried to speak but couldn’t get the words out.

“Gods, Félix,” she said, stricken, “are you alright?”

He found his voice at that. “Leave me.”

“But – oh, there’s a leak, you must let me . . .” she trailed off mid-sentence. He saw the precise moment when she made the connection between the trickling water and his loud, ragged breathing. “Félix—”

“Get out,” he spat. He could not take her pity: not over this.

“But—”

“Out.”

She fled from the hold, hatch slamming shut behind her. Once she was gone Félix leaned up against the beam beside him, hands pressing against the rough wood. He took another shaky breath, focusing on how his hands were free, how his body sat unrestrained, how he rested upright rather than prone. He felt a moment of absurd gratitude that they had chosen not to bind his hands this time.

Focusing on the calming effect of his deep breaths, he felt his symptoms fade as quickly as they had come. His heart slowed its mad rhythm, his shoulders ceased their trembling, and he no longer felt that inexorable sense of impending doom, that wretched feeling of breathless helplessness.

He swallowed against the rawness in his throat. He felt as though he had swallowed sea water – he always did, after these episodes – although no such thing had happened. He glared at the still-trickling leak for a long moment. Those sorts of things had gotten to him ever since his first time in Januz. He had a better handle on them of late, but time on the board was time on the board, and the memories were fresher than he would have liked.

Félix rubbed at his upper arms. Having water splashed in his face gave him phantom feelings that he did not understand. His father had once told him that many warriors endured such mind-tricks even if few ever spoke of such things. Water in his nose often made him feel as though he was being held down by the shoulders (or vice-versa; the two sensations were somehow intertwined in his head). He had once accidentally given his older brother a black eye for grabbing him by the shoulders to wake him.

Félix shook his head hard. That had been many years ago, yet memories of his older brother still did not come to him easily. He pushed the thoughts aside, knowing that they would only agitate him once more. There were few things that could work him up so well – he had conquered some more easily than others – but those that still did seemed obstinate in their persistence. Memories of his brother were among them. Trickling water was another. They continued to plague him, however dulled his response had become with the wearing of the years.

He missed his mother. She had long been one of the handful of others he could consult with on such matters; she had cared for many men from his family who had come home from war with nightmares and visions plaguing their minds. He sometimes wondered whether he would still shirk from the bath, the rain – even a poorly-aimed drink of water – were it not for her soft care and concern. Without her, he never would have been able to return to the sea.

His Januzian captors never had and never would know how near they had come to wrecking him: he had made sure of that. He felt a dark sort of satisfaction that time on the board with the Oceanic had not created a new set of difficult memories, although it frustrated him that his control had slipped more during the course of his imprisonment than during the past several years combined. Reminders of his time in Januz were everywhere. He knew that his response to such reminders couldn’t be helped, but resented his condition nonetheless.

He wondered, on occasion, whether his dedication to controlling his thoughts – practiced ceaselessly since his time in Januz – was what had made it possible to rebuff the mental encroachments of the fish-man King. Félix had found the creature’s intrusion off-putting, and its persistence nearly broke Belen’s alliance with Zathár before it began. It was only the demon’s promises that encouraged Félix to reach a compromise: Zathár alone would be permitted to peek into his thoughts. In return, Zathár promised that he would finally be cured of the haunting memories and shameful reactions to such mundane things.

Zathár had not delivered on the promise. Félix supposed it was punishment for his failure to carry out the letter of the demon’s orders, yet it still galled him that Zathár would hold such a thing ransom to secure his continued cooperation. He could hear the whispers at times: _complete one more task and you’ll have what you seek. Just the one more task, Commodore. Soon you’ll have peace_. He had begun to wonder whether the demon would make good on that promise after ‘one more task’, or whether the reward would be stretched before him like a carrot before a horse.

Félix had last felt Zathár probe him for information a fortnight earlier. The invasiveness of it had infuriated him. Zathár had dangled the promise of peace once more, balancing it against another order. _Take the ship. You are owed one, Commodore. Take the ship as yours_. Félix couldn’t help the flash of anger he felt when reminded of his beloved _Madesta_ ; Zathár had taken this sentiment as an opening and showed him a vision of how he could commandeer _Windjammer_ as his own.

_Start with the girl when she comes to give you your meal. She trusts you too much, and has left your hands unbound this time. She wears a knife on her hip; you can take it from her. She has the key to your cuffs. Use her as leverage to gain control of the vessel. You know that the Oceanic are soft. They will do anything to keep you from hurting her._

The order had horrified Félix. _I told you – no women, no children._

_She is tempting you away from your mission, Commodore. Do not fall under her spell. These are your orders. Ignore them and you will regret it._

Félix had shut the demon out of his thoughts at that. He told himself it was for the sake of turning over Zathár’s offer in private, but knew this to be an excuse. There were thoughts taking hold in his mind that were not for the demon to know.

Since that day, the demon had tried to come at him in his sleep with little success. Promises for Madesta had begun trickling into his dreams: visions of a glorious nation united under peaceful rule. Félix had entertained such dreams for a few nights before pushing them from his mind as well. _I said I would fight for you, but I will not touch the girl. Now get out of my head._ He wondered whether the demon knew how conflicted he had become, and what that would mean for his reception at the tribal council.

Zathár had last touched his dreams a few nights past, showing him a vision of a burning city. Félix had been horrified to realize that it was his own. The threat was explicit. _Do not cross me, Commodore._

Perhaps Ehrin was right, and he had allied himself with a monster – but what other choice did he have? How else would his people finally be free from Dramorian rule? Now that things had been set in motion, there was little he could do to stop it. Broken promises or no, he couldn’t turn back now.

.

Ehrin found Arden and her father in the Captain’s cabin, consulting a variety of charts. The topmost map showed the curve of the southwestern coastline between Anaphe and the mountain border. She watched them from the doorway for a few moments, trying to put words to what she wanted to say.

“What’s wrong, Ehrin?” Callum asked, looking up from his work. “You only ever hover in the door like that when you’ve brought bad news.”

“I don’t think we should keep the Commodore in the hold anymore,” she blurted.

“And why’s that?”

“There’s a leak.”

Arden and Callum exchanged glances. “It’s a rainy day. We can caulk it when the weather lets up.”

“You don’t understand,” she pressed. “It’s wet where he’s sitting. It _does_ things to him.”

Arden’s frown deepened. “What sort of things?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “There was something wrong with him, though – I know that much. He sounded like he couldn’t breathe, and when he noticed I was there he nearly bit my head off.”

“You said he’s getting wet from the leak?” Arden asked, brow creasing.

“He’s being dripped on. I’d say we could chain him elsewhere, but he’s too tall to fit further forward.”

“How long has the leak been there?”

“Not long, else I’d have noticed it before. I reckon this isn’t the first time this has happened, though.” She chewed her bottom lip. “Is this because of the time you strapped him to the board?”

Arden seemed stricken by the suggestion. “I don’t know. But you’re right in one regard: it’s needlessly cruel to keep him where he is. We must move him – only I don’t know where, or how.”

“Out of the hold?” Callum shook his head. “Have you forgotten what that man looks like in a fight?”

“My attention was elsewhere that day,” Arden admitted.

“He fights like a cornered animal. We’ve a hardy crew aboard _Windjammer_ , but I’ll not take the risk.”

“Da,” Ehrin protested, “please. Think of what that poor man endures down there. It’s–” she hesitated. “It’s a form of mind-torture, isn’t it? To leave him there? If he thinks he’s back on the board again, who’s to say that this isn’t just as bad as strapping a man to it?”

“That ‘poor man’ is the same one who nearly sacked our homeland. I’m not in the habit of showing such consideration to warmongers.”

“We won, Da – it’s over,” she said. “I know we’re all still angry – Ranael knows I am – but are you angry enough to do such a thing to another man’s mind?”

“She’s not wrong,” Arden said.

“Am I meant to be worried about his mind for my own soul’s sake, or am I meant to be worried about it for the sake of the treaty we’re trying to make?” Callum asked, looking pointedly back and forth between them.

“Both, I’d hope,” Arden replied. “I don’t like the man very much either, Cap, but we’ve got to start putting that aside. I like the man better than I like the demon, and I need to stop giving him reasons to fight me.”

“I know that.” Callum pinched the bridge of his nose. “But he’s not yet our friend. We need to keep him restrained, and the hold is the only place to do it.”

“What about a cabin in the mid or forward compartments?” Arden suggested.

“And shackle him to the struts of one of the bunks? A man with enough motive could tear them down to free himself.”

“The support beams for the deck run beneath two of the midships cabins. I could drill into one of those and fit a ring to it. I know it’s not a modification you’d want to make, but I’m not sure what our other options would be,” Arden said.

Callum considered the point. “Sometimes I think that we’ve swept that man’s misdeeds under the rug for the sake of politics.”

“An alliance with the West is the lesser of two evils. To make it work we must make the first overture. If that means accommodating a captive officer who has earned no such right, so be it. Besides,” he said, looking away, “as Ehrin pointed out, we may have brought this problem upon ourselves.”

“I don’t know, Jack.”

“Da, please,” Ehrin pleaded. “He’s suffering down there.”

“Or he’s a good actor,” Callum countered. “I don’t like this at all, but I’ll honor the decision you make.”

“This is your vessel,” Arden reminded him. “I’d rather not go over your head.”

“We’re not going to agree, lad – and although this vessel is my responsibility, the success of this venture is yours.”

Arden went quiet for a few moments, finger idly running along one of the charts to trace the shape of the Westernese coastline. He had never supported the decision to strap Félix to the board, but he was complicit in it nevertheless. Guilt burned through him at the thought. How could he have the gall to propose an alliance to the Commodore after all of that, misdeeds in the isles or not?

“I’ll go get my tool kit,” he said.

Callum sighed. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I’ve been saying that to myself for months, now,” Arden muttered, passing Ehrin on the way out.

“Thank you,” she said, pressing her father’s hand.

He looked down at the chart, unseeing. “You’ve got a kind heart, girl – kinder than mine. Your Ma did too, you know. She’d be proud of you.”

“I hope so,” Ehrin whispered.

“She would. I like to think she’d give you the same bit of advice, though: bad men use kind hearts for their own ends. Your Ma was always the first to help someone in need. I’d not have changed that about her. It’s part of why I loved her as much as I did.” Callum sighed, eyes focusing on Ehrin once more. “There were times, though, when I had to keep her from running to someone’s aid. I hated seeing others try to take advantage of her.”

Ehrin had heard these words – or similar variations – many times in the past, but it didn’t lessen the ache. She missed her mother. “Yet I’m made as much by you as I was made by Ma,” she said. “I’ll not be taken for a fool.”

Callum pressed her hand. “So you keep telling me. I’ll believe it if he ever sees the error in what he’s done. Now then – go on. I can see how anxious you are to help Jack with his project.”

Ehrin kissed her father on the cheek before hurrying to midships where Arden had already begun work. She found him kneeling on the floor in one of the port cabins, knocking on the deck to find where the thick beam ran beneath their feet. Hearing her footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. “Can I borrow you for a little while?”

“Of course.”

“Grab that shackle out of my tool kit and head down to the hold. Give me a holler if I start to go crooked with my drill. When I’m through the other side, I’ll push the bar through and have you shackle it in place, alright?”

Ehrin was apprehensive at the thought of returning to Félix’s company so soon, wondering what sort of reception she would receive. She agreed in spite of her misgivings, however, and headed back into the companionway where the hatch to the hold was located.

She could hear the sound of Arden drilling, cranking the handle and working the bit through the dense old beam that supported the weight of the second deck. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light after a few moments; she was glad to see that Félix had regained his composure. He sat still on the other side of the hold, dark eyes expressionless as they regarded her.

“Forgive the noise,” she said. The scraping of Arden’s drill overhead echoed through the space, louder even than the slap of water against the hull.

He didn’t respond, and she had no intention of pressing him into conversation. While she had encountered few soldiers who experienced waking memories of battle – or at least, few who admitted to it – she was no stranger to the nightmares and phobias developed after many years spent in combat. She had always counted herself lucky as the infrequent recipient of terrible dreams, but knew that Arden, her father, and many of the others were plagued by them. Of late she had stopped pickling fish to stock her larder; the smell alone turned her stomach ever since the debacle with the sea-witches. She had been grateful to her crew for refraining from comment, though they had surely noticed the change. She figured she owed Félix the same consideration: particularly since his struggle was not as mundane as her own.

“What are you doing?”

His question startled her. “We’re moving you up a deck, but don’t have any fittings in place there as yet,” she replied, indicating the thick iron ring to which Félix’s ankle was cuffed.

Félix didn’t mask his surprise at her answer, but refrained from commenting. Above her, small chips of wood rained down from the beam, peppering the bilge as Arden’s drill bit broke through the bottom of the beam.

“That’s it, Jack,” she called.

The drill bit drew back, casting a dim shaft of light into the hold. The hole was soon stopped up again by a long cast iron bar with a fitting on the end. She slipped her shackle through it, making it impossible to yank the bar up from the top. She used her marlinspike to set it tight, knocking on the deck above her head when she was finished. The shackle barely rattled with Arden’s experimental tugs.

Félix remained silent through the whole process, watching her work and listening to the successive thumps coming from above their heads as Arden rearranged the contents of the cabin to better suit its new use. When Arden appeared in the hold, she was surprised to see Félix get to his feet, crouching to avoid hitting his head. He crossed his wrists behind his back without complaint. She saw his fists clench as Arden bound them, but was relieved that he didn’t put up the kind of fight that her father had expected.

Ehrin followed them up the ladder and into the cabin Arden had prepared, newly empty save for the lone cast iron ring fastened in the corner. Arden adjusted the manacle on Félix’s ankle, fussing with the padding Ehrin had added to ensure it wouldn’t chafe. He met Félix’s eyes as he finished, holding the stare for a long moment. It was Félix who looked down and away first; Ehrin wondered whether he was embarrassed by the small kindness he had been shown.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Arden said, grabbing his tool kit. “Don’t forget about watch, Ehrin.”

“I won’t,” she promised, watching him heft the kit onto his shoulder and head for the midships companionway.

It was bright in the cabin even with all of the hatches dogged shut. The rain had stopped, sky clearing; a shaft of sunlight passed through the hatch to light up a pattern on the floor at Félix’s feet. Ehrin hovered in the doorway, delaying her departure. She could feel his eyes on her.

“Why now?” he asked.

“You know why.”

More time passed in silence. Ehrin spent it by fussing with the port light, cracking it open far enough to let a breeze snake into the cabin. When she turned back to Félix he had arranged himself cross legged in the dappled sunlight. His face was tilted up, soaking up the warm rays, eyes shut.

“ _You aren’t responsible for what you saw earlier. I want you to know that_ ,” he murmured.

Ehrin was surprised by the admission. “The past few months can’t have been without consequence.”

“That is true,” he said. “It has been worse of late.” He opened his eyes, regarding her. “You told them to move me.”

“Yes.”

“They listened.”

“Arden and my father are good men,” she said. “We’re not in the business of watching people suffer, but we’ve never had someone like you aboard, either.”

“ _You don’t know what to do with me_.”

“The crown would rather we were allies than enemies, but you won’t consider the offer. My father is afraid that treating you like a dignitary and officer would put the ship and crew at risk. So yeh, it makes it hard to figure out what your place should be.”

Félix considered her words. “ _You told me once that you couldn’t hate me because there were good intentions behind my actions. In spite of it all, I think I have come to have the same opinion of you and your crew._ ”

“You have?”

“You are surprised.”

Ehrin grasped for words. “I guess I am. I’d have thought . . . well, with the board and all . . .”

“The board is a terrible thing, but sometimes it is made justified by the reasons it is used.”

“I’d never call the board just,” she said.

“Oceanic is not my language,” he shrugged. “I think I should have said ‘necessary’. But that was not my point. What I mean to say is this: I have put men on the board just as I have been put on the board. It is not an easy decision to make.”

“Nor was it for the Regent. I hope you know that.”

“I do. He does not have a heavy hand,” Félix agreed.

“He’s not cruel, you mean.”

“He did what was necessary for the information he needed. He was not willing to go further. He was not willing to push hard even for the things he thought were important.”

“That’s why we didn’t learn about your alliance with the sea-witches,” Ehrin surmised.

“Or Zathár. He knew I had more to tell, but hesitated to make me tell it. A different man could have taken my secrets from me. He is not that kind of man.”

Ehrin’s teeth worried at her lower lip. “I spoke of it once with him. He said that he could tell you had been on the board before. He thought it made you hard. I think he was ashamed to have resorted to the same techniques as your former captors.”

Félix went quiet for a moment, eyes focusing on the middle distance between them. “Your Regent could not take my secrets because he never made me feel fear. That is what the board does. It makes fear. There were a few times when he was close and my tongue grew loose, but I knew that he would not let me die on the board – not intentionally. I was certain of it. That was the difference.” He looked up to meet her eyes once more. “So you see, he did not do the same as my former captors. He did not make me think that he would take joy if I drowned."

“Oh,” she said, finally understanding what he was trying to say. This was what he had alluded to weeks earlier, when he told her that he considered Valory a worthy adversary.

Félix resented his defeat, his imprisonment, his interrogation – but recognized that both he and Valory operated under a similar code of honor. Over time, his hatred of the Regent had given way to something else. She couldn’t imagine summoning even the most grudging respect for anyone who would strap her to the board, but supposed that there lay the ultimate difference between Félix’s perspective and her own. He had spent his life making war, then peace, then war again with all of his neighbors. He didn’t interpret acts of warfare the same way she did. He had witnessed enough true cruelty that the only distinction that mattered to him was motive; means were secondary.

“Then in the hold . . . you weren’t thinking of your interrogation at the Regent’s hand,” she concluded.

“No. I was a young man the first time I was put upon the board. It is that memory that returns to me at times.”

“How old were you?” she asked.

He hesitated. “ _I had just made Lieutenant, so – eighteen. It was my first campaign as an officer, and we were at war with Januz_.”

Ehrin counted a few times in her head to make sure she had heard him right: Belenese numbers still confused her. “You’ve carried this with you for a long time, then.”

“ _It was worst after I first returned to Belen. I struggled with it for some time, but was well enough to return to fight within the year_.”

“And now it’s coming back.” She sank down to sit beside him.

“ _It never left; I merely learned to better control myself. Most of the things that used to spark memories of my imprisonment no longer do, but there are a few that linger. I refuse to let them keep me from the water, however. I would not be called a coward.”_

“That’s the last word I’d use to describe you,” she said.

“ _I don’t shrink from fear_ ,” he reiterated. She had the impression that he was worried she would think less of him after what she had seen. “ _I was startled awake by the leak, or it would not have troubled me._ ”

She considered his words. “That’s why Valory thought you hard: because you knew what was coming, and you steeled yourself.”

“ _I was not entirely successful_.” Félix looked away.

“What happened, to create such terrible memories?”

He was quiet for long enough that she thought he wouldn’t respond. When he did speak, she was startled by the change of angle.

“ _When I was in the cell in Armathia, I overheard the guards speaking about Elona. They said that men had died on the board._ ”

“I heard that as well,” she murmured.

“ _I know who did it._ ”

“He was your captor,” she guessed.

“ _Most of the states give their prisoners a clean death once they have been stripped of any useful information. Januz does as well, for the most part – but there is one man who kills with the board. He gets a sick thrill out of it._ ”

“Doesn’t Januz consider such an act dishonorable?”

“ _To an extent, yes_ ,” he replied. “ _Yet his reputation precedes him, and I’m sure they’ve noticed a difference in the way the other states approach combat as a result. Men fear capture by the Januzian navy._ ”

“For good reason, it seems. Who was he?”

“ _One of their Captains. He could never rise above that rank to command a flotilla; men like him can’t climb the ladder as easily as they think. None of his fellows trusted him._ ” Félix sent a sidelong glance her way. “ _He would have been ransomed, wouldn’t he?_ ”

“I suppose so, yeh; unless he was on one of the ships we met in the harbor. From what you’ve told me, though, I reckon he’d have been in the fort when it was recaptured. Their Commodore fell on his own sword, but nearly all of the other officers surrendered,” she said.

“ _I should not wish him dead, but I do._ ” He shifted, resting his elbows on his knees. “ _I wouldn’t have wished him on Ithaka. I’d not have wished him on the worst of my enemies._ ”

She hesitated, wanting to know how he had escaped from such a captor, yet not wanting to press him into remembering things that were best forgotten. “Is he one of the reasons why your father and brother didn’t want you to go to tribal council?” she finally asked.

“ _Yes. He is part of a powerful Januzian family, and is often in Zaránd for the council. He cannot take the sight of me._ ” He pressed clenched fists to his thighs to steady himself. “ _He chooses his prey from the prisoners taken during a conflict. Few of his selections escape, and fewer still recover their wits afterward. My very existence offends him._ ”

“Did he know who you were when he picked you?”

“ _My title was why I was picked in the first place. He’d have thought it a brilliant coup to drown one of Belen’s potential heirs upon the board._ ”

She bit her lip. “How did you escape?”

“ _It was a combination of luck and trickery. I already told you that my captor takes joy from suffering – you will be unsurprised to hear that he prefers it when his victims put up a fight. On the day when I feared he would end me, I made a show of caving within moments of the first drop of water. He was disgusted with my weakness, and ordered his underlings to feed me up and let me rest for a few days. He wanted me to regain my strength and be fully present at the end._ ”

Although he hadn’t finished the story, Félix paused for a long time, looking down at his lap in silence. Ehrin reached out, hesitant, to cover one of his hands with her own. “Don’t continue. My curiosity isn’t so important.”

He turned to meet her eyes. “ _There is little else to say. The guards thought me weak and did not take care; I was walked back to my cell by only one man. I was able to overpower and disarm him, and, after freeing myself and two of my companions, fled into the city. They never found us._ ”

Her father had been right, then: Ehrin couldn’t imagine Félix would have been able to pull such a stunt were he not vicious in combat. She wondered how different things would have gone all those months ago if he had been a part of _Madesta_ ’s boarding party and not forced to stay at the helm.

“I’m glad you told me all of this,” she said. “I don’t rightly understand why you thought me worthy enough to hear it, but I’m glad.”

“You are a warrior, too,” he said, turning his hand. Two palms rough from years of sailing rested against one another.

“A warrior?”

“Yes.” The certainty in his voice surprised her. “You even have the hands of one.” His thumb swiped over the line of callouses that gathered where palm met fingers – callouses that came from years of handling sails and cutlasses alike.

His thumb stilled and Ehrin threaded their fingers together, squeezing his hand before letting it rest.  They sat in silence like that for a long while, palms touching, until the ship’s bell rang and sounded the beginning of her watch.

…

Arden stared at the lantern on his desk, original task long since forgotten. The flame jumped each time he drummed his fingers on the table, sapping energy from his already-tapped reserves; yet watching the candle was both hypnotic and soothing, and Arden found himself reluctant to stop. _Val would tell me to stop fidgeting and get back to task._ The thought sprang into his mind unbidden, sending a shock of longing vibrating through him. He missed Valory so much that the feeling choked him at times. Knowing precisely what Valory would think or say at any given moment was less of a comfort than Arden had initially thought it would be; mulling over Valory’s potential reactions only served to throw his absence into sharp relief.

His days were marked by the nagging feeling of a job left undone. He would finish watch at the end of an evening and hurry below as though there was some task waiting for him in his cabin. He’d stand before his desk for a few long moments, trying to figure out what had been hovering at the back of his mind – was it the chart? The log? Dead reckoning? – only to realize that the thing he’d so wanted to do was see Val: an impossible desire. It didn’t matter how many times he schooled himself to remember that Valory wasn’t there; thoughts of the man were running amok in his subconscious mind, and he continued to hurry below out of habit at the end of every watch.

Arden’s eyes focused again, landing on the tomes that lay open-faced on his desk. He was tearing his hair out over these manuscripts, over bettering his grasp of the Western dialects, over hammering out the finer points of the negotiations he wanted to bring to the table. It was difficult work to begin with, made all the harder by Valory’s absence. He was ever thankful for the quiet support of his crew, but things no longer felt quite right away from the man to whom he had pledged his unending fealty. He supposed that only made sense, but logic was cold comfort.

He slapped one of the books shut with a grunt of frustration. Behind it, the candle guttered out – whether from the whoosh of air or tug of his enchantment he couldn’t be sure. He took it as a sign and stood, prowling around his cabin in a long circle. When the motion began to remind him too much Valory’s habitual pacing he stalked out of his cabin, hoping that someone would be below to tear his mind from the unending loop in which it was caught. The salon was deserted. He hurried towards the companionway, trying not to look at corners of the ship that, after living aboard for some fifteen-odd years, were all suddenly overlaid with memories of another.

Arden took a deep, grateful breath of air as he emerged out onto the deck amidships. It was a beautiful night: _Windjammer_ was heeled over with a brisk wind, the sails were full, and they were making great time on a beam reach. Above his head the sky was resplendent with stars, brighter now that they were away from the lights of Anaphe. The moon hung low in the sky, just full enough to encourage the firefish to put on a show in _Windjammer_ ’s wake. The dark waves around them were studded with the creatures: _‘stars above and stars below’_ as Val had once put it. Arden let out a long sigh, coming to stand by the leeward rail and rest his chin in his hands.

He wasn’t alone on deck, of course; Ehrin sat at the helm, holding course with a thoughtful set to her features. Niko was on the high side of the quarterdeck with an eye trained to the horizon, looking out for enemy ships as much as he looked for shoals. Arden didn’t realize that Jonah was with them until he heard the first slow, mournful notes of a dirge spill from his violin. He stared down at the mainsail ballantine for a few long moments, thinking of the evenings he passed there with Valory, letting Jonah’s achingly beautiful melody drive his thoughts. It seemed as though all of their moods were low that night.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Lars, who inclined his head towards the quarterdeck. Sparing one last look for the ballantine coil he let himself be led aft. He was too worn to fight the look of concern on Lars’ features, too tired to protest the extra bit of care he was being shown.

Arden realized they had been waiting for him to turn up when a mug of Ehrin’s cocoa was pressed into his hands. He glanced at the helm, raising a brow at her enigmatic smile. Caving, he took a sip only to realize it had been laced with coffee. He savored the sweet warmth of the drink with a long sigh; there was always something about it that brightened his spirits. He felt a moment of intense gratitude towards Ehrin for knowing him so well.

Jonah’s melody petered off into silence once more, as though he hadn’t the heart to continue. Niko looked up from his post at the windward rail. “Don’t stop, I liked that.”

“I don’t know the rest,” Jonah said, violin resting on his knee, fingers idly plucking at the strings.

Niko cocked his head. “Well if you don’t have anything else in you, let’s someone spin us a tale – else it’ll be a right sad watch with you lot moping around the deck.”

Arden felt a small smile tug at his lips. “What did you have in mind?”

Niko thought for a moment, weighing his options before turning to Lars. “I heard a fairy story from a trader when we were in Halen a few years back. Something about a Sarian Queen who could call fish out of the water to leap around her. Do you know it?”

Lars nodded, boosting himself up onto the deck box next to Jonah. “Yeh, I know the one you’re talking about, but it’s no fairy story.”

“Really? Even the part about the—”

“Don’t spoil it for the rest of them, Niko,” Lars scolded.

“Let’s hear it, then,” Ehrin said.

“Alright,” Lars said, warming to the topic. “I first heard the story when I was a young boy traveling to the mainland. My family would go to the capital to visit some family we had there, and I would hear and see all sorts of things I never had before. Saria’s far removed from the rest of the East, you know – it’s so different from Oceana and the isles.

“The journey to the mainland is dangerous even in the calmer months. The coastline is protected by shoals and sandbars that have wrecked many an Oceanic vessel. Even traders from Halen hesitate to make the crossing. Mainland captains who attempt it are few, but it’s said that they are all blessed by Oreler; they use their blessing to follow the fish through a maze of dangers and out to the sea.

“Such talents are common in the mainland. Halen is all that most Oceanic know of Saria, but Halen is an island of mixed blood; even the most powerful of Oreler’s children pale in comparison to what I’ve seen on the mainland. And just like those blessed by Illen, Oreler’s children are not what they seem.”

“How so?” Jonah asked.

“Just look at our Jack here,” Lars said, gesturing towards where Arden stood. “He wears his years in a different way. Even I do, I s’pose, though not so well. But now I’m getting distracted – where was I? Right: King Thun had no blessing, and lived the years of a normal man. During his time he had two children, twins, born moments apart from one another. The eldest was a girl, the younger a boy. They grew up together, and while the boy developed a weak talent in the palace gardens, the girl grew far stronger. They say that even before reaching her majority she could speak to the creatures of the water. She would run from her minders each day and they would always find her in the river, fish leaping around her.

“She used her power well, even as a little girl. She would listen to the voices of the river creatures and tell the fishers when enough had been taken. She knew when the salmon would run, and knew which creeks were unsafe to dam. There are stories from when the young Princess visited the royal summer home by the sea . . .” Lars trailed off. “But I’ll leave those for another time.

“At first there was no question over who would succeed Thun – women can’t inherit in Saria, you know. But as the time to pass the crown drew near, it became clear that many were not so happy to put the less powerful child on the throne. Still, passing over the son would have caused an uproar. Not knowing what to do, Thun decided to have his daughter crowned and instate his son as her High Councilor. She was the face of the throne, but couldn’t make any moves without her brother’s approval. This pleased everyone for a time as brother and sister ruled side-by-side in peace.

“King Thun passed a few years later. The High Councilor began his search for the Queen’s consort, since it had become her responsibility to bear a new line of heirs. He brought in powerful men from all corners of the kingdom: men of breeding and learning to sit on the throne beside his sister. She was displeased by his efforts. Although she was unable to rule without his input, he couldn’t choose a consort without hers, and one by one she turned the suitors down.

“Growing desperate, the High Councilor asked his sister to pick a man she wanted – any man – but she was young and headstrong and said she wanted none. When he forced her hand, she announced that she would let the creatures of the sea choose her consort. She decreed that any man who wished to wed her must present her with a token of interest or she wouldn’t even consider their offer.

“Suitors came from all corners of the kingdom, interpreting her demand in every possible way. They brought her fish that had been prepared in stews, cakes, and pies; fish grilled and boiled; fresh catch still wet from the river. Some even brought live fish to her in buckets and tubs. Each time she took a long look at both fish and man and sent them packing.

“After a time the council began to get antsy. They thought they were being played, and resented Thun’s decision to put a woman upon the throne. Fearing retribution from Oldred’s most powerful families, the High Councilor arranged for a marriage between his sister and a man of his choosing.”

“What did she do?” Ehrin asked.

“She refused to marry. She fled the city to the north with a small group of followers. They went to the lands where the ground never thaws, even in the warm months. She said she would live out the rest of her days there, next to the frozen seas, surrounded by the creatures that she loved more than any man.

“When she fled her brother became King in all but name, and many more years of peace followed. But now he grows old on the throne, and can’t name an heir: for his sister still lives, and she’s the rightful Queen. Some say that she’s waiting for him to pass on before she returns to rule once more. Others say that she’ll stay forever in the frozen north and leave Saria without an heir when the time comes, since none can make a true claim to the throne until she leaves the world for Oreler’s arms.”

“She must be old though, mustn’t she?” Jonah asked.

“She is, but with power like that they say she has many years left to her. I’ve heard talk from some who’ve been to the north. They say she’s still beautiful, but cold like frost. For all the High Councilor’s efforts Saria hasn’t forgotten her. They call her the ‘Ice Queen’: the true ruler of the House of Verhaaren.”

“Why can’t her brother take the crown? She left the capital, didn’t she? She gave up her claim to power,” Niko said.

“It would be like Valory trying to put a son on the throne in Siath’s absence. It follows the line of succession, but still leaves an avenue open for contention. Some of Armathia’s nobility would be very happy to take that avenue if it gave them a chance to elevate their status,” Arden replied. “I had heard pieces of this story as a young man: that the Sarian King held the throne in trust. It’s part of the reason why our trade agreements with them are so shaky, and mostly use Halen as an intermediary.”

“What d’you think it’ll mean for making an alliance with Saria?” Ehrin asked.

“I think the most important thing to realize is that, divided though the House of Verhaaren might be, this _is_ still a bit of a fairy story,” Arden replied. “Like all good tales it has a grain of truth, but I suspect that our emissaries will find the reality somewhat more mundane when they reach Oldred.”

“But the Queen still lives in the north, does she not?”

“That’s what I was told,” Lars defended.

“And perhaps she does,” Arden allowed. “Either way, you’re right to say it could complicate matters. I tend to think, however, that if the High Councilor has been ruling in his sister’s stead all these years, his men would be willing to follow him to war.”

“That’s what I’d think as well,” Lars said. “Dramor doesn’t only prod at Oceana’s borders, you know; they’ve been at ours on and off again since I was a young man.”

“Will Zathár attack Saria as well, then?” Jonah wondered.

“Not at first; it would be folly to divide his forces between Oldred and Armathia. Once Oceana falls, Saria will be an easier target,” Arden said. “Part of the difficulty in seeking aid from Saria is that we’re asking them to sacrifice men that they may later need to defend their homeland.”

“But if Armathia is overrun . . .”

“Just so,” Arden sighed. “If Armathia falls, Saria stands little chance of repelling Zathár’s armies.”

The gloomy mood was broken by a streak of light in the water beside them. Ehrin sat up with a gasp.

“Jonah, take the helm,” she said, jumping down from her perch. “I’m holding at one-seventy.”

As Jonah grabbed a spoke in her stead, Ehrin rushed to the leeward rail. Another streak followed the first, a tunnel of yellow light weaving around their hull towards the bow. She clapped her hands, delighted. “It’s dolphins – they’re playing in our wake!”

Arden moved to stand at the rail beside her, watching another pair of dolphins dart past, tumbling around one another as they played. Their movements set the firefish alight, giving the appearance of long, streaking tubes of light off of their port side. Up by the bow he could see the glittering spray as the dolphins jumped and squeaked, playing in the firefish-studded waters of _Windjammer_ ’s wake.

“Makes you feel bright, doesn’t it?” Niko asked as they watched the spectacle.

“Perhaps they knew we needed a lift,” Arden said, tracking another dolphin past their beam by the brilliant yellow trail it left behind. The display did bolster his spirits, though it couldn’t rid him of his lingering sadness at being unable to share it with Valory.

“Jack.” Ehrin’s hand landed on his.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked.

“One of my favorite things about night passages,” she agreed before lowering her voice. “But despite all that you’re still looking low.”

Arden blew out another sigh. It was tempting to rebuff her concern – he had no desire to discuss the matter – but held back on a terse dismissal for her sake. “There are few things on Ranael’s waters that don’t remind me of him, these days. That’s all.”

“Even the firefish?”

“He would have loved to see this; he always seemed particularly charmed by the creatures. I’m sure he’s seen such a sight before, but . . .”

“I don’t think even one as well-traveled as the Regent would scoff at a show like this,” Ehrin nodded.

“It’d be one of the few occasions that could color his language with anything resembling poetry,” Arden continued. “I wish he was here to see it.”

“We’ll be heading eastward soon enough: triumphant and with an army at our heels. You’ll see, Jack,” she said.

If there was a waver of uncertainty in her voice, he didn’t mention it.

…

Careful to avoid the treacherous shoals of the West, Callum kept _Windjammer_ some miles off of the coast as they traversed the border between Anaphean and Belenese territory. The demarcation line had been drawn through the mountains for as long as any man could remember; mountains that, in places, were nearly impossible to cross. The range split the Eastern World in two, starting far in the frozen north and running all the way southward to the very coastline that _Windjammer_ passed.

The danger of the sea route between Oceana and the West was due in no small part to this mighty range. It sank as it reached the southern coastline, continuing for miles out to sea and yielding unexpected sea mounts and shallows along the way. Since his tenure with _Windjammer_ Arden had heard many sailors’ tales of uncharted islands to the southwest, full of mystical beings and untold treasure. Callum had never been the sort of Captain to gamble life and livelihood on such rumors, however, and as a result this was the furthest away from home any of them had ever ventured.

He had been off-watch when Ehrin had come to find him, dragging him from his studies to watch the mountains pass. He was awestruck the moment his feet hit the deck. Craggy rock faces towered over the water, daggers of bedrock pointing up towards the sky where crashing waves hadn’t yet eroded them away. Beyond them rose the mountains, growing ever taller as they spread northward from the coast. Some of the greatest of the verdant giants were capped with white, the only snow that Arden had ever seen with his own eyes.

It was incredible. He wished Val was there to share it with him.

Two pairs of shuffling footsteps stopped next to him. Arden turned to see Félix’s profile, solemn as he regarded the sublime landscape before them. His hands were manacled, chain held by Lars. Despite the heavy reminder of his captivity he seemed at peace; the severe expression that Arden had come to associate with him had softened at the first sight of his homeland.

Something tickled the back of his mind as he regarded the Commodore, something solid and pleasant. With anyone else he’d have considered it a misplaced memory, but he and the Commodore had few happy moments between them. Barring that possibility he wondered whether his enchantment was acting up; his Prophetic talent waxed and waned with seeming irregularity, but it was rarely inaccurate. He wondered what that meant for their future relations with Belen and its Commodore.

Their exchanges had been far more cordial since Félix’s relocation to the second deck. With formal interrogations suspended in favor of Ehrin’s far more effective methods, Arden had sought out new excuses to speak to the man. In an attempt to build rapport he brought Félix the occasional ration of grog, often sitting with him in silence while they finished their drinks. They were not yet at the point where conversation was easy between them; Illen’s Arm and all that followed remained too fresh. The silence had become more companionable than adversarial of late, however, and Arden had hope that he might yet have the chance to plead Oceana’s case.

Beside him Félix spun around, raising a manacled hand to his forehead to block out the sun. He squinted out over open water for a long moment before turning again. He looked back and forth between the two points several more times. Arden was about to ask what he had seen when Félix turned to him, an unreadable expression on his face.

“We are approaching a shoal.”

“Were you triangulating our position?” Arden asked, turning southward to see what landmark Félix had used.

“I know these waters,” he said by way of reply. “We must fall off and head inland. It does not look like the correct course, but it will only get shallower to the south. Traders often wreck on the reef here.”

Félix met Arden’s level stare, holding it for the space of a few breaths. Although the easy offer of aid seemed out of character, Arden was certain that he was telling the truth. Ignoring Lars’ incredulous look, he headed for the helm where Callum was frowning at the waters before them. It grew shallow ahead, just as Félix had said, yielding lighter and lighter shades of blue as the ocean floor rose. It was a beautiful sight, but unquestionably dangerous.

Callum looked up as he approached. “We’re headed right for a tight spot. We may have to sheet in to close-hauled to make it around this reef.”

“The Commodore says we’ll wreck if we try to round the reef that way; there’s another drop-off further inland.”

Callum’s brow furrowed as he squinted at the water off their starboard bow. “I may be getting on in years, but I’m not yet blind. We’ll not make it through to the north of this thing.”

The rattle of chains alerted them to Félix’s approach, Lars tagging along behind him with an apologetic look on his face. He glanced at the compass before looking back at Callum, impassive. “You will not make it through at all if you try to pass offshore. There is a great reef to the south with no inlet for a ship of this size.”

Callum narrowed his eyes. “Do you expect me to trust your word over the evidence of my own eyes?”

“These are my waters,” Félix shrugged. “Believe what you want. But I will tell you this: within the next few minutes you will start to see the breakers off of your port bow. If you do not fall off then, it will be too late.”

“I don’t like this, Jack,” Callum muttered under his breath. “This reef wasn’t on our charts. He could be having us on.”

“We’re using charts from Lyre,” Arden pointed out. “I’d be surprised if this was the only reef they’re missing.”

“You think we should take him at his word, then?”

Arden frowned, watching the water off of their port bow. “Do we have another choice?” As he spoke, the first white-capped breakers appeared on the horizon.

Callum saw them as well. He turned to Félix, resigned. “Alright then, Commodore: that’d be the shallows. What’s our heading?”

Félix’s eyes flicked back to the compass. “Fall off to three-hundred thirty degrees.”

“Three-hundred thirty, aye. Jack, get the lads trimming for a broad reach. Commodore, if my ship comes to any harm I’ll wring your neck myself.”

 _Windjammer_ changed course, heading towards water shallow enough that the keel would have mere feet of clearance. Arden held his breath as they went. A glance over the side confirmed how narrow their margin of error was; he could make out individual heads of coral below them. Félix remained next to the helm, scanning the waters off of _Windjammer_ ’s bow with intense focus. After several tense minutes he straightened, pointing off to port.

“There is the cut. We must round up to three-hundred twenty,” he said.

Sure enough Arden could see the thin strip of deep blue water that broadened and darkened as it ran away from the treacherous shallows. Callum made the correction without comment, glancing up at his sails as he did. “Main’s luffing, let’s sheet her in.”

Lars passed the Commodore off to Callum before joining Arden at the main sheet. Arden readied himself to tail, relying on Lars’ strength to work against the wind and sweat the sail inboard. The sail only needed a minor correction; Arden kept his eyes on its shape, telling Lars when the luffing stopped. The proper trim gave them more speed and allowed Callum better control at the helm as he navigated the tight passage. A glance forward confirmed that they had just entered the channel. Having escaped the danger, the waters beneath _Windjammer_ faded to deep blue once more.

They rejoined Callum at the helm, Lars reclaiming the end of the chain that bound Félix’s hands. The Commodore hardly seemed to notice, so focused was he upon the waters surrounding the vessel. He was still keeping watch, though whether by instinct or by design, Arden couldn’t tell.

“Why help us?” Arden asked.

Félix didn’t take his eyes from the horizon. “I am aboard this ship. I do not want it to sink from beneath me.”

“It’d give you a chance to get away though, wouldn’t it? You could make it to your territory from here,” Arden pointed out. Lars leveled an incredulous stare at him, as if to ask why he insisted upon tempting fate.

At that Félix turned to meet Arden’s eyes. “What good would it do to escape? At least if you have me ransomed they will not want to waste the price by hanging me.”

Arden furrowed his brow. “Do you really think your brother would let you hang?”

Félix’s features clouded over, and he turned back towards the sea. “Perhaps.”

Arden wasn’t sure what to say to that. Callum spared him the trouble. “What kind of a man orders his brother hung?”

“Do not tell me that a man has never raised arms against his brother in Oceana. I will not believe it.”

Arden conceded the point: his own house hadn’t avoided contention in the years following Drand’s service. Even the House of Kings had stories of intrigue: particularly before the Regency was established. Eramen’s line may be unbroken, but the throne had been graced by a handful of younger songs. He wondered how many of those stories had been tidied to clear the names of those who won.

“As well you shouldn’t,” Arden said. “But raising arms is different than a public hanging.”

“Yes,” Félix agreed. “It is the difference between a fight for inheritance and an accusation of treason.”

“Do you think your brother will hang you for a traitor?” Arden’s brows rose.

“It is possible.” Félix shifted, chain clinking. “I failed in the isles – the elders know this. Zathár will be displeased. They must think me dead, after so long. The rest of my men have been ransomed. When we arrive and I show no marks from captivity they will be suspicious.”

“Would you rather we flog you?” Lars snorted.

“If I had been prisoner in Januz for six months, you would see . . .” Félix trailed off, a shadow passing over his features. “Not Januz. I would be dead, if I had been taken by Januzians.” He shook his head, clearing it of that thought. “They will see that I bear no marks and think my treatment soft. They will wonder what I did to win it. When you propose an alliance they will worry that I have turned, and when I tell them otherwise they will think me a spy.”

“Even your brother?”

“Perhaps. He does not risk his throne. If I do not give him cause to believe otherwise, he will have no choice. The elders will say I have committed treason, and he will order me hung.” He looked away. “It would not be the first time he has ordered such a thing.”

“Has he ordered it in the past?” Arden asked, question out before he could restrain himself.

“No. But he hung our older brother.”

Arden wished that Ehrin was there to help him navigate this conversation. Callum and Lars were too dumbstruck to offer anything other than raised eyebrows in response. From a strategic perspective he needed to keep the Commodore talking: this was the first honest conversation he’d drawn from the man, and he was gaining insight into the mind of the Lord of Belen as a result. The diplomat within him sought to press forward and extract more information. The rest of him, however, balked at the idea. He, too, had an older brother who had been murdered. He couldn’t even begin to fathom how he would have taken it if Conrad had died at Verne’s hands.

Arden swallowed. “Did your older brother contest his title?”

“Yes.”

“I gather you didn’t support the decision to quiet him.”

Félix bristled at the suggestion. “I am not the kind of man who applauds his brother’s hanging.”

“I hadn’t thought you were,” Arden assured him. “I only wondered who was thought to be in the right.”

“My older brother was stubborn. He should not have opposed the decision of my father and the council.” He met Arden’s eyes. “Olivier was not a strong ruler when he took my father’s title. He worried that my older brother and I would unseat him. Some of the elders thought him weak. They wished to see a display of strength from him. My older brother was the first challenge to his rule. He made sure there would not be another one.”

“Were his actions met with approval?”

“Not by my family or my older brother’s supporters. The others were pleased. The Belenese are warriors. They demanded a show of strength from their leader, and he gave it to them.”

Arden considered his words. “It didn’t tempt you to rebellion?”

Félix snorted. “No. It did the opposite.”

“Is that why your vision for Madesta is so strong?”

“In a way, perhaps.”

“A unified Madesta governed by a permanent tribal council would check some of your brother’s impulses. It would guarantee your safety, at the very least,” Arden said. “It would save Belen from tyranny. An alliance with Oceana could only help with that.”

“It is not so easy as that, though yes, a permanent tribal council would be a start. You must realize that Belen’s elders are as responsible for what happened as Olivier. They, too, command much power.”

“You’re saying his hands were tied?”

“He is not all terrible.” Félix toyed with the length of chain between his hands. “He is not the best man to sit on the throne – we know that now. But he is still my brother. I do not want to unseat him.”

“Even after what he’s done?”

Félix glanced back at Arden. “You have brothers Lord Arden, do you not?”

Arden winced. “I had two. I have one, now.”

Félix’s lips thinned. “Apologies.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“No,” Félix agreed. “But then, you must understand: I cannot hate my brother, even after what he has done. Perhaps I did, for some time, but no longer. It has been many years. I think perhaps he has come to question his actions. Age has tempered him some, and we have reached an agreement. I do not want to disrupt that.”

“I’m not sure I do understand,” Arden admitted. “I can’t imagine so easily forgiving such a transgression.”

“It was not easy, and do not think I have forgotten. Remember that things are different in Belen. You and I do not see eye to eye in many ways.”

“I’m afraid I can’t fathom how you can put faith in a brother who might put the noose around your neck. I . . . well. My brother and I have our quarrels, but he would never see me dead.” Arden immediately thought of his father then, wondering if he wasn’t simplifying his own family’s matters as well.

“You will ransom me. The elders will not want to waste the price. I will not be hung as a result. I have faith in that. It will give me time to show that I am still fighting for Madesta, and not for some Oceanic prince. Then perhaps I might regain some of my honor.”

Arden shook his head. “I never asked you to cease your fight for Madesta: I only asked you to fight against the demon.”

Félix went quiet for a while at that, leaving Arden to wonder whether or not the Commodore was actually considering his words. He had all but given up hope that the man would.

At the bow the bell rang the hour.

“Alright Belen, that’s time,” Lars said, making ready to bring the Commodore below.

Félix hesitated for a moment, looking back at Arden. “What you ask for is impossible,” he said. With those words he turned, letting Lars lead him forward and leaving Arden on the quarterdeck with his thoughts.

…

_Siath felt the tug upon his mind and let himself fall, vision whiting out around the edges. This was not the hair-raising pull he had felt when succumbing to the Sea-Witch King, but something different: softer, warmer, more benevolent. Before he lost all connection with his body he lay down upon the cool mosaic tiles of the altar, hoping that he wouldn’t be so long as to disturb other worshippers who came to pay tribute._

_In his mind’s eye was a small white ball of light, bright and welcoming. He moved towards it and it grew, drawing him away from his body and into the space where dreams and visions lived. As he approached the light it moved and changed, forming shapes and shadows that remained bathed in that soothing, white glow. With some surprise he realized that he was on a ship; the light breeze pulled at his vestments and ruffled his hair. He could feel the spray of saltwater, the heeling of the deck beneath him. His feet carried him aft towards the quarterdeck almost of their own volition, passing smiling men and women who worked together before the mast in tandem._

_Mounting the quarterdeck steps, he was momentarily arrested by the sight of the figure at the helm. He knew it was a woman, though she looked like no woman he had ever known. Her eyes were large and dark, set further apart on her face than he was accustomed to seeing. Her nose was long and flat, mouth wide and lips thin. At first he thought her hair to be dark like his mother’s, but closer inspection revealed that it was not hair at all but long, fibrous ribbons of some kind of sea grass growing from forehead to spine. As he drew near he saw the webbed skin between her fingers and gill-like slits etched into the side of her neck._

_“Eramen’s son,” she said, beckoning him closer. Her voice was low and throaty. Gooseflesh broke out on Siath’s arms and legs._

_“Where am I?” he asked._

_She smiled, revealing rows of small, pearlescent teeth. “You are on the Ship of the East.”_

_He gaped for a long moment, staring openly at her before sinking down to his knees. “My Lady, forgive me. I didn’t recognize you.”_

_A bell-like noise rattled out of her chest. After a moment’s confusion he realized it was laughter. “Your own ancestor called me a strange creature, once: and perhaps I am. But your kind is strange too, and it only makes sense that we would think such things, for you come from the land and I come from the reef.”_

_Siath stood on shaky legs, scores of questions flying about in his mind. He was on the Ship of the East standing before Illen herself. It beggared the mind._

_“I thought you came from the East, my Lady,” he said, finally finding his voice._

_“That was within my lifetime. When I spoke of the reef, I was speaking of something that occurred eons ago. It was my kind – not I alone – that came from the coral seas.”_

_“And then you found us, my Lady.”_

_“Yes.” She smiled. “We were young, then, and excited to explore the uncharted seas.”_

_Hundreds of questions flew about in Siath’s mind; he was unable to decide what to ask first, and worried that when he spoke they wouldn’t come out straight. Was he the first to See her since Eramen’s time? Had other Seers had this privilege? Why was she appearing to him now?_

_“That was before you left my world for this one,” he said, struggling to keep his thoughts in order._

_“Long before. There is a wide ocean with many lands between yours and mine, but yours was the one we liked best. It was where we stopped and lived for a time.”_

_“I thought . . .” he trailed off._

_“Something else?” she offered, a shade of a smile prompting him to realize that any semblance of a discussion was a formality; Illen could peer at his thoughts as readily as any Empath._

_“I had never given thought to where you came from, my Lady. I suppose I thought you had always been.”_

_“Your books were written many years after we crossed into the spirit world. They were penned by hands that had never held ours. There is much that they do not say.”_

_Siath frowned. “I don’t understand: if it’s possible for a Seer to communicate with you, my Lady, then why . . .” he trailed off._

_“You are the first living man to come visit me in many years. It takes much strength to do so: you must know this. As for the others . . . most men I see are not in a position to return to the mortal world and annotate the Eastern Scriptures afterwards.”_

_Siath turned around at that, regarding the smiling men and women who stood before the mast. “They’re all dead, then.”_

_“Of course. This is the Ship of the East, as I have said,” she replied._

_“My father—”_

_“He has already crossed the sea with me.”_

_“Ah,” Siath murmured. It had been too much to hope for – that he would see his father one last time. Another thought struck him at that. “My brother. I Saw what happened to him at sea those years ago. My Lady, can you truly send a man back from the spirit world?”_

_“Not as you imagine it, no: I cannot heal a dead man. Your brother was hovering in the doorway when we found him, however, and I was able to do what I could for him. He was still weak when Ranael left him on the shores of Ithaka. He may have had help, but he survived on his own strength of will,” she replied._

_“Thank you, my Lady,” he said, voice hushed. “You saved his life.”_

_“It was not a difficult decision to make.” She ran a webbed finger along a spoke of the helm. “I’m afraid that my brother and I are prone to intervention, however. It has long been a difficulty of ours.”_

_“Are you speaking of your decision to stay behind in the Eastern World at the end of the Age of Gods?”_

_“Yes. When Zathár rose to power and the peace between his kind and yours disintegrated, my brethren began to leave in droves. They did not care for the creatures of this world – man among them – and wanted no part in such a conflict. It was Fángon who found you most charming. He convinced me to stay behind.” She blinked slowly. A white membrane came up to cover her eyes. “Yet still I didn’t want to interfere with Zathár’s plans, as these were not my lands. As time passed, however, I came to love you and his cruelties became more difficult to witness.”_

_“So you fought with us,” Siath completed._

_“My brother and Zathár had disliked one another since the day we arrived. He hated Zathár for his conceit; Zathár thought my brother a self-righteous hypocrite. So just as he convinced me to stay, he also convinced me to fight. I am glad I did,” she replied. “Yet we did not want the victory to be ours alone. We would not have done what we did were it not for Eramen. He united your people during the uprising. It was only then that we knew our efforts wouldn’t go to waste.”_

_“So the war was won. Fángon created the locker as a prison for the spirits of Zathár and others with tainted hearts, then sacrificed his liberty to guard the door. You sacrificed yours in the name of bearing the souls of the worthy eastward.” He paused. “Forgive me my Lady, but I still don’t understand why that meant leaving us and dwelling eternally in a realm man can only see once he passes.”_

_“We left you to determine the course of your own lives,” she said. “It is not for us to reign in the world of men: to attempt it would make us no better than Zathár. The pact we made was binding. We are never again to take physical form.”_

_“You are no Zathár, my Lady,” Siath protested._

_“Perhaps not, but after the war ended we were unable to return to our role as friends and curiosities. Your kind knew what we were capable of.” She sighed. “Eramen called me Queen, and offered his hard-won crown to me instead. That was only the beginning. We were called for every dispute, every negotiation. The affairs of men are messy. There is rarely a wrong and a right, and I grew frustrated when men demanded that I take a side. I will not use my power to aid man unless it is, as you say, ‘black and white’.”_

_“Were you afraid that your influence was too great, my Lady?” he asked._

_“Yes, and with it, the temptation to exercise such influence. It pained us to step away. That is why so many of us bestowed gifts upon you. We knew that Zathár would find a way to break the pact, and hoped that such gifts would protect you.”_

_“But why not return now, my Lady? Is this not the hour of the Reckoning? Is this not a clear case where one side must be destroyed?” Siath argued._

_“We cannot. We swore we would not come unless called in the name of a worthy cause. It is as I said: the pact was binding.”_

_“Is this cause unworthy? My Lady, consider yourself called!” Siath was aghast at his own impertinence._

_“It is not enough to speak the words in a vision, child of Eramen. There is only one way to call upon us: it was made so at the end of the last age. Doing so demands great sacrifice, for we would not be called lightly – nor by just anyone. And now, after so many years, I fear you have forgotten how.”_

_Siath frowned, trying to puzzle through all that she had told him. “If you so removed yourselves from the Eastern world, then why is it that you have come to me in this vision, my Lady?” he asked._

_“Because it was the other way around: you came to me. We are on my ship, are we not?”_

_Siath’s brows rose. “I wasn’t seeking you out, my Lady. I have no idea how I would have done such a thing.”_

_“I was on your mind. Today is the first day of my season: my name is on the lips of all of your people, and my connection to your world is strong. Besides,” she said, amused, “you are lying with your forehead upon my altar.”_

_“It’s the first of Illád,” he breathed. “Then next year . . .” he trailed off._

_“Perhaps. But for now you must go. You may not feel so, but you have been with me all afternoon, and have exhausted yourself in the process. While your visit brings me much joy, your Steward has begun to worry.”_

_“As you wish, my Lady,” he agreed before pausing. “Before I go, please tell me – Anaphe?”_

_Her smile turned sad. “You know I cannot tell you that. Fare thee well, now. And as your people say, may the wind—”_

_“Wait,” he interrupted, holding out a hand. “One more thing.” He looked around at the Ship of the East before fixing his eyes on the gills that lined the side of her neck. “Why do you captain a ship if you could live in the water just as well as you can on land?”_

_She reached up, pressing her fingertips against his temple. “For you and your people, Siath: for you are land dwellers alone.” His vision whited out once more._

Siath groaned aloud, head pounding as he was released from the vision. His eyelids felt heavy. Pushing himself up to sit felt like a monumental effort, even with the aid of the pair of hands that held him upright. When his eyes finally focused and adjusted to the dim light of the cathedral, Verne’s worried visage was the first thing he saw.

“My Lord, can you hear me?”

“Yes Verne – I’m fine. Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting to have a vision, let alone one that would last so long,” he said, attempting to get to his feet with little success. One of the Master Healer’s apprentices appeared at his side, clasping arms with him to take some of the strain.

“What did you See, my Lord?”

Siath let out a sigh of relief as the edge was taken off of his headache, pulling his arm from the apprentice’s grip before the young man exhausted himself as well. “Thank you Healer – but that’s enough for me.” He grasped Verne’s outstretched hand, letting his Steward help him to his feet.

“My Lord?”

Siath cast a glance back at the altar, a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m not certain you’ll believe me,” he said, letting Verne support him as they ambled up the center aisle of the cathedral.

Verne’s consternation was obvious. “You must know that I would never hesitate to take you at your word, my Lord.”

“Be that as it may, I’m not sure what I believe myself.” He glanced up at the stained-glass windows of the cathedral, light pouring in from a different angle than it had when he first knelt at the altar. “What time is it?”

“Six bells, my Lord. You were lying upon the altar for almost four hours.”

He heard the unvoiced reproach in his Steward’s tone. “I was meant to take the evening meal with Duke Edmund; perhaps if we postpone by an hour—”

“I have already taken the liberty of rescheduling this evening’s obligations, my Lord.”

“Very good, Verne – looking out for me as always. Would you also have the High Priest come see me tomorrow morning?”

“Is this about what you Saw, my Lord?”

“It is. I’m not trying to keep aught from you, but I think I’d like to take some time to absorb what I’ve Seen before speaking of it.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Verne said, only the faintest hint of a frown on his face.

They emerged onto the steps of the cathedral where late afternoon and twilight met, air turning pleasantly cool as the sun went down in the distance. Leaning on his Steward’s arm, they took the steps to the plaza one at a time. Siath let out a pleased sigh. It was a rare luxury to have an evening free of social or political obligations. Edmund would have no qualms about voicing his annoyance at their postponed meal, of course, but as far as excuses went, _‘I was speaking with Illen’_ was irreproachable.

Siath smiled. Let Edmund try to complain about _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take this chapter away from me, I've been staring at it for too long -- please and thank you.
> 
> Once again a bigbigbigbig thanks to all who have commented with encouragement, opinions, and the rest: your words keep me inspired and moving forward (I'm looking at you, typervoxilations). Arden and Val might be headed down different tracks right now, but the plot goes on and I've got a lot of work to do!
> 
> Regarding the first part of the chapter: I was trying to write it as though Felix came back from Januz as a young man with moderate PTSD, but with the support of family members who have seen/gone through the same thing, was able to work at it until it no longer hindered his ability to do his job. I read a *lot* of accounts of soldiers who were stationed in Iraq/Afghanistan (as well as all of the psych requirements for a PTSD diagnosis), and many of them cited talk therapy as being extremely helpful in combating the symptoms. The one thing I noted is that the symptoms are vastly, vastly different from person-to-person; I tried to include a few of the commonalities, but felt in a lot of ways like I was flying by the seat of my pants. I really hope that my representation of Felix's battle with PTSD read as realistic rather than as a glib or lazy treatment of the condition; any feedback on that would be welcome.


	10. Chapter 10

_The Season of Peace  
Erán the 17; 2422_

Fiona looked over the minutes from the last council meeting, a hand supporting the weight of her head. “I don’t know,” she sighed. “Lord Arick and his brother have always struck me as hesitant, though I couldn’t say whether that hesitance has to do with the crown, my position, or a cautious disposition.”

Valory’s pacing continued, soles of his bare feet flattening a circular pattern in the high pile of the rug. His shoulders were drawn up taut as a bowstring, visage a stony scowl. They had been at this for hours: and after a long day, besides.

“What do you think?” he asked. “You know the men better than I.”

Fiona focused on her papers once more, trying to remember whether she had been able to glean any impressions off of Arick earlier that day. Her talent had waned again, however, just as Gabe and her uncle had warned her about. Her abilities would come and go in ever-strengthening cycles until they reached maturation. Although it was an inconvenient time for her abilities to weaken, she was glad to be rid of the headache.

While she had been unable to read the councilors as thoroughly as she had read the Regent and her uncle the prior week, she was not entirely bereft; she still had the vague impressions of a minor Empath from which she was better able to extrapolate than in the past. She found that the lack of a headache tremendously improved her focus, though now that she knew its source, she found its absence disconcerting rather than relieving.

On top of that, Valory’s pacing was making her nervous. Unable to read him as she had done, she found him ever more difficult to speak with: and that didn’t even account for how sour his mood had been since Arden’s departure several days prior.

“Well?” His voice was sharp, cutting through her reverie.

She set the council minutes down on the tabletop. “I don’t think their intentions are duplicitous. Lord Arick has long been a minister of agriculture, and though he served in the military once, it seems he isn’t confident speculating over matters of war.” _And neither am I_ , she was tempted to add, but held her tongue.

“Then what pretty language should I use to get the numbers out of him? Gods, I’m not asking him to write our marching orders.” His pacing halted abruptly as he reached her side of the desk. “You’d think a minister of agriculture would know how much grain we’ll need in our stores to outlast a siege.”

“I think they’re afraid: both of what’s to come, and of displeasing you.”

“Then perhaps I should make it clear that such hesitance from otherwise competent men is what I find most displeasing. I asked for a rough estimate – not for a figure down to the bushel.”

She heard his pacing resume behind her. “I wish we knew when they would come,” she murmured, shuffling the stack of papers around. The scrawled minutes betrayed how inconclusive the past council meetings had been.

“Yes, and that is their excuse for stalling action. ‘ _We must have more information’, ‘we must not be hasty’ –_ don’t they understand that their city may fall for lack of haste? Or is that what they’re after to begin with?”

“Some of them, I suppose.”

“ _I would that Arden were here_.”

It was mumbled under his breath, but she heard it regardless. She winced. She knew that she hadn’t been filling her uncle’s shoes as well as had been hoped, but Valory was both a difficult man to know, and a difficult man to advise. She had to be ever-mindful of what she said around him, worried that the occasional impudent thought would come out and she would wind up contradicting him before the council. She was certain he would be livid after such a slip, and had no desire to see what he was like when he was well and truly angry.

She felt another stab of pity for her uncle. What must it be like to live with the man all the time? She wondered whether or not her uncle was ever the scape goat for the man’s foul temper. She cringed as she considered exactly what that might entail.

“Suppose they arrived in a week’s time,” she said, breaking the silence and willing her thoughts away from such avenues. “How long would we have to hold the city before aid came?”

“Four weeks if we are fortunate. Six at most.”

She nearly upset her chair. “Six weeks?”

“Zaránd is not an easy journey from here,” Valory said, finishing another circuit of the room.

“Gods,” she murmured.

“That isn’t even my primary concern, Lady Fiona. I’m hoping that naval aid may be delivered from the Western states before the siege begins. Without it, I’m not certain that our walls will hold at all.”

“Is the might of Dramor so great?”

“Zathár will send more than mere armies of men to take the peninsula,” Valory replied. “We have no way of knowing what the creatures are capable of, nor how many they number. Indeed, we won’t know until they cross the mountains and draw within sight of Malcolm’s scouts.”

“Do you think them so numerous that we stand no chance, even with the reinforcements sent from the capital last season?” she asked, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice.

“I don’t know. Perhaps we will be fortunate.”

“You think us doomed without aid from the West,” she said, the gravity of his assertions hitting her square in the chest.

“It’s why your uncle was sent on such a far-flung mission to begin with. We need fighting hands; our fort is woefully undermanned. Your uncle has a knack for diplomacy, however, and if he manages to sign a treaty with the Western leaders, we could see aid from both sea and land. The former could hold our walls against the initial onslaught; the latter could repel Dramor from the peninsula.”

“So when you say we must hold out for aid—”

“I assume that your uncle will meet with success.”

“You haven’t spoken thus to the council.”

“No,” he admitted, “not yet.”

“You need to know how many mouths we can feed, else you’ll not know whether or not we can support the Westernese forces when they come,” she said, comprehension dawning. “Why not speak plainly, my Lord?”

Valory pressed his lips together. “There remain Dramorian sympathizers in this court, though I know not who they are. I’d rather they didn’t know the particulars of Arden’s business in the West.” He let out a frustrated growl. “And while he’s there, I won’t sit idle. If I am to be trapped here, waiting for Zathár’s armies to knock on our door, I must at least find some way to marshal the city’s resources.”

Fiona nodded. Before his departure, her uncle had warned her that the Regent was more of a warrior than a prince: that he would chafe at being confined within Anaphe. Her uncle had not exaggerated. Valory was a man of action, not a man given to hours of meticulous planning. She knew that it would be but a handful of days before he began to snipe at the council, taking out his frustrations upon the most convenient victims. Her uncle had seemed to think that she could prevent him from sinking into such low spirits, but she wondered if that faith was misplaced. She was at a loss.

Aware that Valory was expecting an answer, she forged ahead anyway. “If the council wants precise information, then let’s give them precise information in turn. We could tell them that the attack will come in four weeks’ time. Perhaps it won’t, but it’s a start. It will get them talking in concrete numbers rather than abstractions.”

His pacing halted. “Yes,” he said, startling her with his vehemence, “very good. We can have them draw up figures in their areas for several timelines. It will give them no excuse to balk at a lack of certainty.”

“Some still will,” she warned. “They want to know how many men to expect.”

“Dramor could muster several thousand,” Valory said, “but as I said it will not be men alone who march.”

“True,” she nodded, breathing easier now that she had finally found an approach that pleased him. Emboldened, she offered another suggestion. “What if we—”

She was interrupted by the door to the suite, squeaking on its hinges as the Princess entered the room. Fiona glanced at the clock on the tabletop. When had it gotten so late? Had the Princess been waiting in her chambers all the while?

“Sybina,” Valory said, “I had thought you were in bed already.”

“No my Lord, I’ve been awaiting the end of your evening,” she replied, crossing the room to stand before him.

“Don’t wait on my account; Lady Fiona and I are caught up in affairs of the state.”

“My Lord,” she reached out, placing a hand on his forearm, “it’s late. Can the work not wait?”

Fiona had begun readying her papers for her exit when Valory’s next words stunned her into stillness.

“We’re busy, Sybina. I’ve no time for recreation.”

Fiona winced at the indifference in his tone. Sybina favored her with a cold glare before curtseying and sweeping from the room in silence.

Fiona’s hands shook as she mindlessly sorted the papers into stacks. _Gods, that poor girl._

“Forgive the interruption,” Valory said, appearing at her elbow.

“I—my Lord. Perhaps I should go. Your wife—”

“My wife knows that we are at war, Lady Fiona, even if she occasionally forgets the kinds of responsibilities that places upon my shoulders.”

Fiona winced again. Was this what it would be like when she was wed? Would her husband dismiss her so blithely and care so little for her affections? She turned, studying Valory’s closed features. This was the man who would choose a husband for her. If he was so cold to his own wife, what happiness could she possibly expect to get from such a match?

“Forgive me, my Lord, but I’m exhausted,” she said, willing her voice not to tremble. “I fear that I will not be much use to you if I do not rest.”

Valory frowned. “Have you made note of our discussion tonight?”

“Of course,” she said, standing. “If I may?”

“I hope you do not feel as though you are being chased out.”

“Not at all.” She risked a glance back at his face. “Though perhaps you might use this time to sit with your wife.” She knew the suggestion was bold, and could tell from Valory’s downturned mouth that it wasn’t one he had wanted to hear.

“Counsel, Lady Fiona?”

“A suggestion,” she replied, looking away.

“Yet not baseless,” he admitted, much to her disbelief. “Very well, perhaps I will. You’re free to go: have a good evening.”

“You as well, my Lord,” she said, surprised that he considered heeding her suggestion. Clutching her papers to her chest she made for the door, which Valory dutifully opened. With one last nod to the Regent she escaped into the corridor where she was surprised to find his Lieutenant leaning up against the far wall, pipe dangling from his lips.

“Come,” he said, blowing out a ring of smoke, “I will bring you back to your rooms.”

She had heard him speak only a handful of times before. His accent fascinated her. “Were you out there the whole time?” she asked.

“It is my duty to protect the Regent from harm,” he said by way of reply. “Of late that has meant watching you as well, my Lady.”

“Captain Malcolm—”

“Is stubborn. He did not want to stand down, but it was clear to me that he needed rest.”

“At least he listens to _someone_ on the matter,” she groused. “Will I be seeing much of you, then?”

“And my men, Little and Gabriel. You may trust them.”

“Yes, the Regent told me as much.”

Imran was not talkative. They walked through the halls in silence, though she found that it was not an uncomfortable one. She took to watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was alert, watchful, ready for action. She wondered what sort of trouble the Regent habitually found himself in for his second to consider the inner halls of a palace to be hostile territory.

“Here we are, then,” she said as they reached her chamber doors. Imran exchanged a salute with the guard at the door.

“Goodnight my Lady. If I am not here when you wake, one of my men will be in my stead.”

Fiona raised a brow. “There is a man posted at the door.”

“My duty is mine alone, my Lady. I will not pass it off onto someone else.”

This, she understood. “Very well. Have a pleasant evening. If there is aught you need—”

“Yes. I will say the same to you. Do not hesitate to call.”

“Of course, Lieutenant. Goodnight.”

.

The door opened the moment his knuckles touched wood. His wife appeared on the other side, a dressing gown covering her nightclothes as though she hadn’t given up her hope of visiting with him. A small smile stole across her face at the sight of him, one he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Come,” he said, “sit with me for a while.”

Her smile broadened as she followed him into their sitting room, light on her feet. When he sat on the settee she settled next to him, leaning into his side with a contented sigh. “You mustn’t work so hard all the time, my Lord – you will wear yourself out.”

“The consequences of doing otherwise are direr than mere exhaustion,” he warned. “You know what enemy we face: surely your father discussed this with you.”

One of her hands came to rest upon his knee. “I don’t like the thought of war. I would have thought that there would be a way to avoid such a terrible outcome.”

“Not this time. I don’t mean to slight your heritage, but Dramor can be obstinate. They do not seek peace with Oceana.”

“But what are we offering them in return?”

Valory was startled by the question; it was more perceptive than those he had become accustomed to fielding from her. “How do you mean?”

She reached for his hand, drawing it towards her and twining their fingers together. “Was my assumption wrong?” she asked. “I know that your brother offered freedom to the people of the West in exchange for an alliance, so why not make an offer to Dramor?”

Valory submitted to the gentle press of his hand, knowing that she was trying to show affection. “We have nothing to offer Dramor.”

Sybina leaned her head on his shoulder, tucking her feet up next to them as she shifted into a comfortable half-embrace. “I don’t know, my Lord – I’ve heard that they covet many things of ours.”

“Such as?”

“They want this city, do they not? I thought that’s why we came here,” she said.

Valory put an arm around her shoulders, knowing that he had to show her some affection in return, yet hating how it felt like a betrayal of Arden. “Dramor has long wanted Anaphe, yes: but if we ceded territory to them every time they threatened violence, we would soon have nothing left.”

“But how can we expect peace if we don’t show them any goodwill?” she asked.

Valory let out a snort. “Of all the things I’ve come to expect, peace with Dramor is not one. Especially not now.”

Sybina went quiet for a while, fingers toying with the locket that hung just above her talisman. He could tell that she had more to say on the matter, and that pleased him. Perhaps there was yet hope that his wife would grow into her title just as Conrad’s daughter had. He knew that Edmund had such hopes as well; he had kept her apprised of the political and economic concerns facing their various provinces, though Valory was yet uncertain whether or not her comprehension of these matters had progressed beyond the parroting of her father’s beliefs. Valory was also aware that Edmund had raised her bilingual under the assumption that she would one day return to Anaphe as the Regent’s bride. Though some command of Dramorian was common enough amongst Oceanic councilmen, it was rare for them to pass such knowledge onto their daughters.

His wife had a good foundation, and that would have to be enough; it was unfair of him to expect any more from a girl of eighteen years. Perhaps under his tutelage she could become an asset. _If only I had more time_. He let out a sigh. _More time, and more patience._

“Do you think we can defeat him, my Lord?” Her soft voice broke the silence.

“Zathár?” It was tempting to say that he did, to simplify the problem rather than have to explain himself. _Yet that would do her no favors, would it?_ “I don’t know. He is a formidable enemy.”

“What will come to pass if we do not?”

“Much devastation,” he murmured. “Oceana will be no more. So you see, a few sleepless nights are a small price to pay.”

“Isn’t it a gamble, to fight?” she asked.

“What, because we may not triumph? I like the odds better than if we didn’t put up a fight at all.”

She wrapped an arm around his waist, further draping herself over him. “I still don’t understand why we cannot reach a truce. There must be a way, mustn’t there? And it could save so very many lives.”

“Peace always has a price, Sybina.”

“And is the price so high that it cannot even be considered?” she asked, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “Zathár’s price most certainly is.”

“Oh.”

At that she seemed to run out of questions, preferring to enjoy his company in silence. After a time she grew heavy on the side of his chest, and he realized that she had fallen sleep. Seeing the opportunity for what it was – and somewhat ashamed for thinking of things in those terms – he lifted her off the settee and brought her back to her bedchamber.

The light covers had already been turned down, and so it was simple to lay her in bed and pull the dressing gown from her shoulders. She murmured in her sleep once and stirred, but to his relief did not wake. After tucking her in and blowing out the candle she’d left lit, he made for the sitting room once more. He stripped himself of his tunic with every intention of getting comfortable before doing more work, but as he rolled up his shirtsleeves he was arrested by the sight of Arden’s vambraces. A wave of longing hit him hard enough to steal his breath. His chest felt empty where Arden’s enchantment had once sat. Sinking into his seat, he stared at the silver stamped lines of Arden’s crest. _Gods how I miss you. You’ve no idea_.

He got no more work done that night.

…

Sybina had long known that having the ability to speak to Zathár in her dreams had marked her as special. He had told her as much, calling her a general in the days after he made his escape from the locker. She knew that there was another one who had spoken to him during his confinement, a priest in Arrynmathár, but it didn’t matter to her that such an honor was shared. Her Lord had waited an age for the call, and the day that hers was strong enough to reach him was the day that her life had forever changed.

Overnight she had gone from nobleman’s daughter to visionary – girl to prophetess – and though the Oceanic didn’t see it, she knew that amongst her people, word of her had begun to spread. Now here she was, standing before the loyal network of Anaphean worshippers who would bring their city into a new age.

“My Lady,” an elderly woman murmured, bending to kiss her hand. Her two sons – councilors – flanked her on either side. They bowed before her, pressing their palms together as they would when praying to their Lord.

“ _Well met_ ,” she said, feeling a corresponding pulse in the back of her mind. She smiled. Her Lord was pleased.

Samir had arranged this meeting, held in his rooms in secret in the dead of night. There were fifteen in number, all from noble houses, all with influence in Anaphean society and government. Years of Oceanic rule had whittled them down to this small number, but Sybina knew that it would be enough. It had to be.

It was her calling to lead them, to guide them, to tell them of her visions of their Lord and his commands. In a few short months the armies of Zathár would be upon their doorstep, and she and her followers would welcome them with open arms. She would never again have to suffer the pitying glances of those Oceanic who thought her weak, disempowered, or servile.

She would rule Anaphe with Valory at her side.

“ _Join me in prayer_ ,” she said, kneeling upon one of the prayer benches that Samir had provided. Shutting her eyes she allowed the cold pressure at the back of her mind to run through her, propelling her into a state of ecstasy as words flowed from her lips.

At first she spoke the blissful prayers of a devoted worshipper, her words echoed by all those who kneeled with her throughout the chamber. Soon the timbre of her voice changed, however, and the others fell silent in awe as Zathár began to speak through her, condemning Oceana’s vain gods and cursing the names of Eramen and Drand.

He spoke through her for some time, demanding the loyalty of his worshippers and making promises for great rewards should they aid him in the deliverance of Anaphe. He spoke of the might of the forces leaving Arrynmathár for their shores, of the great piety and majesty of Obed son of Garo, prophet of Zathár. He gave them their orders and demanded their loyal prayers, reminding them that he grew stronger each time his name left their lips.

Then Sybina went silent, lips still moving with words that only she was meant to hear. Her followers remained with her, heads bowed and backs bent, feverish in their prayers and their promises. They had witnessed a miracle; the words of the Lord they had prayed to all of their years brought to life before their very eyes by a girl with such strength, such purity of spirit, that Zathár had sought her out in his time of need.

Sybina remained in this quiet trance until the candles throughout the room burned low. Samir caught her when her form slumped and relaxed, wiping the sweat from her brow and easing her into the wingback chair at the head of the room. She opened her eyes, taking in the reverent countenances of each of her followers in turn.

“ _He spoke_ ,” she said, a euphoric smile lighting her features.

“ _All we have heard of you is God’s-truth_ ,” the old woman replied, coming to kneel before Sybina’s chair. “ _You are all we have hoped for, all we have long-impatient-waited for_.”

Sybina shut her eyes. “ _I wish I could speak more, but I need to rest_.”

“ _Come_ ,” Samir said, standing and beckoning the others towards the door, “ _we must allow Lady Sybina to recover her holy-strength_.”

They exited one-by-one, hushed susurrations following them on their way out. Sybina lifted a hand in Samir’s direction as the door shut behind them.

“ _Sit with me, cousin_.”

He crossed the room to sit upon a prayer bench at her side. “ _Whatever you require_.”

She took his hand. “ _There is a matter I must discuss with you_.”

“ _You are spent-tired_ ,” he protested, “ _can it not wait_?”

Her eyes slit open in warning. “ _It cannot wait, else I would not speak_.”

He bowed his head. “ _Yes cousin, of course. I am here as you require_.”

“ _I spoke with my husband the other day on matters of our Lord and his army._ ” She turned to watch the guttering of one of the candles. “ _He is very firm-strong-sure in his convictions. He wouldn’t consider reason, wouldn’t even engage in a debate_.”

“ _Not welcome news_.”

“ _No_ ,” she agreed. “ _I want to raise the topic again to try to engage him in discussion, but I fear he may grow suspicious of my motives. I will have to be delicate-cunning in my approach_.”

“ _I have faith in you_.”

She smiled sidelong at him. “ _Thank you, Samir._ ”

“ _That is not a flattery-platitude. Your words—_ ” he faltered, looking back at the bench where she had knelt in prayer, overcome. “ _Your words are more, are stronger than you know. If they can’t inspire the Regent to see things as they are, to see the wrongs his forefathers have done, then perhaps his soul is beyond saving_.”

She had nothing to say to that and remained quiet, eyes focused on the candle.

Samir fumbled for words. “ _I know that your loyalty is to him; our customs are clear on this point, but—_ ”

“ _God first_.”

“ _I know you don’t need reminding-lecture. Please don’t think my words impudent_.”

“ _Your words are meant for comfort. I know that. I also know you don’t understand why and how I can care so deeply-true for such a man—_ ”

“ _He is Oceanic_.”

“ _He is a good man, tainted by the legacy of his forefathers. I wish I could free him from it. If I could, he would be my ideal mate-match. Don’t you see? What glory it would be, to rule Anaphe in Zathár’s name, with a son of Eramen at my side as lover-counsel-friend_?”

Samir blew out a long sigh. On the table before them, the candle guttered out. “ _Yet it seems that this is a dream-hope that he does not share_.”

Sybina leaned her head back, shutting her eyes, trying to keep the hitch from her words as she spoke. “ _He is my ideal mate-match. I don’t understand why he won’t acknowledge that, why he can’t see how much I care for him. Why won’t he give our union a chance to flourish_?”

If Samir thought her hopes naïve or foolish, he didn’t let it show. “ _Do not forget the power that his false gods bestowed upon him. He isn’t what he seems_.”

“ _His age, you mean_?”

“ _He is not a young man, cousin. He may be set in his ways_.”

“ _Then let us pray that isn’t the case_.”

“ _You have the energy for it_?” he asked as she slid down to her knees once more.

She pressed her palms together, chin tilted up, a smile curving her lips. “ _Prayer heals all heart-wounds, Samir. Kneel beside me and I will show you_.”

Samir knelt.

…

“That looks dreadful.”

Fiona looked up from her notes to see Alma peering across the table at her work. “I could say the same,” she said, tapping the assignment Alma had been plugging away at for the better part of the afternoon.

“I like geometry,” Alma defended. “It’s better than just doing sums.”

“You’ve been enjoying your lessons then, have you?”

“More so now. I’m glad to be done with my other lessons and spending more time on maths instead – even if my tutor says he’s never met a woman mathematician.”

“Does he consider it an inappropriate interest?” Fiona asked.

“No, he’s not like that: he’s from the isles. I think he finds my fascination with numbers novel, though. He tutors Lord Halin’s daughter as well and says she avoids doing any more than the basic sums.”

“He hinted that you had a natural hand at it the last time I spoke to him.”

“It’s nice to find a talent at something,” Alma said, glancing towards the window where Alicia sat. “At the very least, it has given me an excuse for ignoring my needlepoint.”

“If you don’t practice, you won’t improve,” Alicia said, focused on the embroidery in her lap. She managed the needle with nimble fingers, crafting the last of a series of delicate orange flowers.

“I don’t like detail work the way you do – you know that,” Alma replied.

“Isn’t maths all detail work?”

“A different kind,” she said. “Besides, why spend time fumbling with a needle when you’ll make me something much lovelier so long as I ask nicely?”

Alicia held up the shawl for her sisters to inspect. “Do you like it so far?”

“Exquisite as always,” Fiona said.

“And my favorite color, too,” Alma added.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Alicia teased.

A knock on Alicia’s chamber door forestalled Alma’s reply, followed by the voice of the guardsman on the other side.

“Lady Fiona, Captain Malcolm is here to see you.”

Alicia turned from the window again, smiling and waggling her brows. “Captain Malcolm, hmmm?”

“Hush, you, unless you want me to start teasing you over how you always blush and stammer around Lord Warick’s youngest son,” she warned.

“You _wouldn’t_. Would you? Fi?”

“Come in, Captain,” Fiona called, smirking at her little sister. Alicia stuck out her tongue.

Malcolm entered the room clad in the uniform he reserved for special occasions, the dye of which hadn’t yet faded from soap and sun. He bowed to Fiona’s sisters before turning her way, extending his arm. “Whenever you are ready, my Lady.”

“Just let me gather my papers. Will you be escorting me this evening, Captain?”

“If it pleases you, my Lady, although I’m sure many of the councilors would be glad for the honor,” he replied, keeping to careful formality in the presence of her sisters.

Holding her notes in one hand, she bid a casual goodbye to her sisters before taking Malcolm’s arm; she would see them at that night’s state dinner. She and Malcolm strolled out into the corridor, taking the short walk to her chambers at a comfortable pace.

“Do you know if the Princess will attend tonight?” she asked, formalities discarded once they were alone.

“I assume so. It’s a state function, is it not? The Regent would require her attendance.”

“Your man said she has been taking her meals with Samir of late. I worry that he hopes to use her as a conduit to whisper in the Regent’s ear,” she confessed. “He isn’t my greatest supporter.”

“He’s not,” Malcolm agreed, “yet after your last close-call he reaffirmed his loyalty to the crown.”

“Words, merely,” she dismissed.

“Perhaps. But remember, the Princess is Samir’s cousin. They may spend much time together, but I’ve no reason to assume they are plotting anything. Lieutenant Imran told me that he has followed her to Samir’s apartments on several occasions; she takes tea and plays with his hunting dogs. Why are you so worried?”

“She doesn’t like me.”

“I know you had anticipated finding a friend in her, but her entire life was just uprooted. It may take some time,” Malcolm reasoned.

“Or Samir has shared his opinion of me. Or,” she sighed, “she resents the amount of time that I spend with her husband.”

Malcolm frowned. “Does she suspect him of infidelity?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. But Malcolm, if you could hear the way he dismisses her sometimes – as though she’s a tiresome child – while I stand next to them . . . I can’t blame her.”

“Have you spoken with him about this?” he asked, holding open the door to her sitting room to allow her to pass through.

“I haven’t. I don’t really know what to say.”

Malcolm shut the door behind them. “You must say something; you’re meant to act in that capacity. In time others will begin to notice as well, and by then we’ll have a problem on our hands.”

Fiona bit her lip, considering his words. “Why do you think he doesn’t want to be kind to his wife?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know, Fiona. They’re only just wed, and he has many years behind him. They’re both making great adjustments—”

“Don’t beat around the bush with me; you know I can tell when you’re doing it.” She paused. “There’s something off about the way he acts around her. I think perhaps he is too used to sharing comfort with another to take it from his own wife.”

She could tell that Malcolm understood what she was getting at by the uneasy look that passed across his face. “You’re speaking of the Steward, aren’t you?”

“They are something to one another that I have heard whispers of, but never before seen.”

“You saw something?” he asked.

“No, not exactly. Only, when my talent was waxing last week, I could feel some of the things they felt when they were near one another.” She cocked her head. “Have you seen this, among your men? I had heard it was something that soldiers did.”

“Well,” he said, hesitating once more, “yes, I have. My understanding is that it’s less common in Anaphe than in other parts of Oceana, but yes. I know soldiers and sailors who have different preferences than I.”

“It makes some sort of sense, in a way. The Regent is a soldier and my uncle was a sailor for a long time, but . . . surely they know that it isn’t done amongst men of our class. And for Valory to continue to do so, even now that he has a wife as his side to take care of his needs—”

“Sometimes a preference is exclusive. You know that, don’t you?” Malcolm asked. “There’s not much gossip circulating about the Regent and any former lovers. Perhaps that is why.”

“So then, that is why he satisfies himself with my uncle rather than his bride?” She asked, incredulous.

Malcolm frowned. “You make it sounds so base, as though the Regent is calling upon your uncle’s obligation to him as Steward.”

“Yet Valory is his superior, is he not?”

“I don’t think the Regent thinks of himself that way. Besides, you asked whether I knew of these practices as a military man, and as such I can tell you: such trysts are not always about physical relief, nor do they necessarily thrive on the dynamic between a superior and an attendant. It’s often more complex than that.”

Fiona considered this new angle. The whispered words she occasionally heard about what two soldiers did together were always so scandalous; it was shocking to think of the Regent and her uncle like that. But then again, those whispers were based off of the very thing that Malcolm had just argued against. “You think that my uncle is his . . . lover?” The word felt strange in her mouth.

“I have no idea, Fiona – I hadn’t even considered the possibility until you told me what you did. While I don’t have the perceptive powers that you do, there were some things I did notice – notably the great friendship between them. I doubt it would be so strong if the Regent chose to exploit it for his own satisfaction,” he replied.

Fiona thought of the playful laughter she had witnessed on the balcony a week prior. Perhaps the whispered gossip of scandalized courtiers didn’t do the Regent and Steward justice. But then, what words would? “Friends, lovers, or otherwise, it doesn’t excuse the way he is with his wife.”

“No, but it could explain it. He can be a difficult man to be around, but I’m not sure I’d call him cruel.”

She pressed her lips together. “I suppose not.” Beside her Malcolm leaned up against the shut door, wincing as his shoulder came in contact with it. “It’s bothering you again?” she asked.

“It twinges now and then, especially at the end of a long day,” he admitted.

“Sit then, please. You can bar the door if it makes you feel better, but I won’t have you making yourself worse by keeping post in my sitting room,” she said, ushering him into a chair near the window.

She pressed her palm to his shoulder as he sat, feeling for any heat or sign that the still-healing wound was becoming inflamed. After a few gentle touches, she was certain that the ache wasn’t a warning of worse to come. Satisfied, her eyes rose to meet his. He watched her with parted lips, eyes hooded. She edged forward to stand in between his knees, daring to reach up and tuck a lock of unruly hair behind one of his ears. She desperately wanted to kiss him.

“We shouldn’t,” Malcolm said, as if reading her intentions.

“Why not?” She asked, exasperated. They hardly ever had time alone anymore – she couldn’t understand why he would refuse to take advantage of it.

He took her hands in her own, soothing her by lacing their fingers together. “Not now, at least. We have to get moving or we’ll be late, and besides, the Regent already suspects . . . and to be honest, though I may have said that I didn’t think him a cruel man, he still terrifies me.”

She heaved a sigh, conceding the point and stepping away towards the door at the far end of the sitting room. “I’ll be quick, then. I assume, based on your candor with me today, that my handmaid is otherwise occupied?”

“I can call her if you wish—”

“No need,” she laughed, “I promise I know how to dress myself.” She leered at him. “Any requests, Captain?”

“I—my Lady—” Malcolm stammered.

Made shy by his response, Fiona looked down at the flagstones. “You don’t have to; I only thought perhaps you had a favorite—”

“The green one,” he said, recovering his surety at the first sign of Fiona’s embarrassment.

“Really?”

“Yes,” he smiled. “I like that one very much.”

She favored him with a bright smile. “The green one it is,” she said, disappearing into her rooms and shutting the door behind her.

…

Valory had sunk into an increasingly foul mood as the days passed, snapping at anyone and everyone who crossed him. Sybina had discovered that he became easier to cross the longer he remained in Anaphe, and as such, was relieved to hear that he had begun spending time at the practice ring in the morning to work out some of his frustration. For the first few days she used the time to pray in the quiet sitting area on their balcony without Valory’s brooding, pacing presence occupying the sitting room. That morning, however, she decided upon a change in routine. She had never seen her husband fight, and couldn’t help the curiosity that took her at the thought.

She had one of her handmaids help her into a simple dress and accompany her to the fort, a wide hat and parasol in tow to ward off the blistering heat of the midmorning sun. It had taken some persuasion to gain access to the training grounds, but she persevered and wound up with a shady vantage point just out of Valory’s line of sight. She arrived as he was returning to the ring following a break for water. Although his sparring partner, the traitorous Lieutenant, seemed unaffected by the heat, Valory’s simple linen shirt was soaked through in places. His hair was sweat-damp, escaping from a messy queue to stick to his neck and forehead. In deference to the heat he had left the top buttons of his shirt undone, exposing a dark vee of skin at his open collar. She didn’t understand why, but she found him incredibly handsome like this.

As he and the Lieutenant raised arms once more and began to spar, she found her eyes torn from her husband as she focused on the steely glint of the Lieutenant’s twin Dramorian blades. She felt deep anger well within her at the sight of them: it wasn’t right for a traitor to wield the weapons of the sultan’s prized fighters.

Her anger was soon forgotten, however, as Valory made his first strike.

Imran’s moves were precise, calculated, meant to exploit weaknesses learned from many years of fighting side-by-side. Valory’s strikes were brutal, well-placed, perhaps not as calculating, and Sybina could see that the Lieutenant was occasionally caught off guard by an erratic blow or an unexpected move. They were well matched, both of them expertly proficient at their unique craft.

Sadly she didn’t get to see her husband best the traitor, for they called an end to the match as the sun climbed higher. She knew that Imran had called it for Valory’s sake; Imran may have sported a sheen of sweat upon his brow, but Valory was panting with exertion. The heat would have bested him in short order.

Her eyes tracked him as he clasped his Lieutenant’s arm and made to leave the ring. He was so handsome like that – affable and with something like pleasure smoothing his features – an expression she hadn’t seen him wear since they were shipboard. She turned to her handmaid and expressed her desire to depart. They hurried through the city back towards her rooms with purpose. She hoped that Valory would have called for a bath to be drawn, that she might see him in private before his afternoon obligations overtook him.

She would surprise him in their rooms. It was a perfect opportunity.

She sent her maid away as they reached the door to their shared sitting room. With her hand on the doorknob she hesitated, suddenly unsure. He had pushed away her advances in the past. She bit her lip, considering. Would he dishonor her by spurning her again? On the other hand, he had come to her of his own volition four nights earlier. Perhaps she would be well-received. She thought once more of the sight he had presented in the ring and made her decision, opening the door to the sitting room and stepping inside.

Valory had made it to their chambers first, and stood at the window with his back to her. He turned when he heard the door open, regarding her with a smile that she feared was forced. He was already bare-chested and looked to have been in the process of removing his vambraces when she arrived. Before she had the opportunity to speak, the door to his chambers opened and two maids entered the room, curtseying to each of them in turn.

“Your bath is ready, my Lord,” one said.

“Thank you, that will be all for now.”

Sybina moved to approach her husband as the maids left their suite. His skin was still damp, and she wrinkled her nose as she neared him. He smelled of sweat and hard work. Though strong, she decided it wasn’t wholly repugnant – at least, not enough to deter her from her course.

“Husband,” she murmured, stopping before him.

“Sybina.” He leaned forward to place a kiss on her cheek; his short-cropped beard was damp when it touched her. “I see you’ve gone for a walk, although I can’t say that I understand why you would want to. It’s brutally hot today.”

She stepped further forward into his space, laying a hand on his chest. “I took a handmaid with me down to the ring when I heard you were sparring with the Lieutenant.” She cast her eyes down. She wasn’t yet comfortable playing the part of the seductress, but she _wanted_ him, and if this was the only way to get what she wanted . . . “I enjoyed watching you, my Lord.” She met his eyes once more. “Very much so, in fact.”

Valory shuffled back a half a step in response, face closing down. “Sybina, I – I have an obligation I must attend this afternoon, for which I desperately need a bath. I’m afraid I don’t have time for much else.”

“Oh,” she said, mortified, face growing hot as he pulled away from her. _I must look a complete fool_ , she berated herself, _being so amorous only to be rebuffed_. _To think that I have stooped to this – one of Zathár’s chosen, begging affection from a child of Eramen—_

He must have seen the crestfallen look on her face, for he took her hand between his larger ones, patting it a few times in an attempt to gentle her. _Perhaps there is something wrong with him,_ she thought as the warm leather covering his palms rasped across her knuckles. She had never heard of a man rebuffing his wife’s advances like this. Samir seemed to think the defect was Valory’s alone, but she wasn’t so sure. _Perhaps it is I who is the defective one._

She stared, numb, as Valory bent to place a kiss to the back of her hand. His sweat-damp hair hung on either side of his face, tickling her fingers. Her eyes lingered on his back, his bare shoulders, his vambrace clad forearms . . .

Sybina registered the sigil stamped into his vambraces only because she knew it to be out of place. This wasn’t the first time she had seen Valory’s vambraces, and yet the swirling silver lines of this familiar-unfamiliar crest were not the same as she had remembered. These vambraces were Lord Arden’s, she knew, as he had worn them atop his shirtsleeves in front of her on multiple occasions. It took her several long moments to piece together what all of it meant, but when she did, the truth of the situation hit her so hard she felt as though she had been struck. Her stomach flipped over, nausea rising within her. _Oh. Oh, no. Oh no, no, no._

She pulled away stiffly, mechanically, somehow managing to offer a meek “my Lord” as she stumbled backwards, a shuddering breath wracking her frame. Her husband was wearing his Steward’s vambraces. Where were his? She tried to remember what it had looked like when _Windjammer_ left and recalled that Arden had his sleeves rolled down to cover his sigil. _He must have Valory’s_.

Valory reached out to steady her. “Are you alright, Sybina?”

She shrugged his hand away, taking another step back out of his reach. She remembered Captain Landon’s words aboard _Rhane_ and shook her head hard. _It can’t be. It can’t_. But even as she tried to form the words with her lips, thoughts of the closeness between Regent and Steward sprang to mind. How many times had she watched her husband and his Steward quietly jest with one another during state dinners? How many times had he chosen to be in his Steward’s company instead of his wife’s? And now this: they had swapped vambraces – a weighty token. Valory was a soldier and Arden a sailor. The meaning behind the gesture had been intended.

“Sybina?”

She opened her mouth to respond, to demand how he dared ask such a question when he had so dishonored her, when he had toyed with her so callously—

She managed to stop the words from leaving her throat, forcing herself to _think_ through the writhing mass of confused emotion that spun through her. Whatever hurt he had caused, she couldn’t let this be the moment when she failed her cause. If she spoke incautiously—

“Sybina, answer me.”

He reached out to steady her once more. She let him, swooning at his touch, hoping it didn’t seem as affected as it felt. She must have done a good enough job of feigning vertigo, for he helped her sit upon the settee against the wall a few paces back. He knelt before her, an expression of earnest worry capturing his features.

A bolt of seething, hot rage tore through her at the sight. This was the most care he had ever shown her, and it came as he wore the vambraces of another upon his forearms. The disrespect galled her. How could her husband call his Steward any sort of mate when he had already sworn himself to _her_?

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” she said, the waver in her voice coming unprompted. “Perhaps the sun was too strong for me after all.”

“You must take more care. Should I call for a Healer?”

“No, my Lord,” she shook her head. “I think I’ll lie down for a while.”

“Let me help you to your chamber,” he said, offering an arm.

She took a steadying breath before reaching out and grasping his vambrace-clad forearm, trying to focus only on keeping up the sham, on convincing him that weariness alone was the cause of her shaky knees, of her flushed face, of the tremor that ran through her frame. She forced herself not to look down at the leather beneath her fingertips, training her eyes instead on the welcoming sight of her bed as they drew into her room.

“Shall I call for your handmaid?” he asked, standing at her bedside as she tucked herself into a comfortable pose atop the covers. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

It was all she could do to refrain from bitter laughter, for leaving her to her own devices was what Valory did best. With painful clarity, she realized that his vows to her hadn’t preceded his declaration to his Steward; they must have started the thing between them long before she took her place upon Illen’s altar.

“I’ll manage, my Lord,” she said, tucking her face into the pillow to hide the tears that stung at her eyes. _How could he_?

“Very well, then.” She heard his footsteps retreat towards the door. “I’ll send someone to check on you in a few hours’ time.”

“My Lord,” she murmured. He shut the door behind him when he left.

As soon as he was gone she sat bolt upright in bed, shuddering with the force of all that coursed through her. All those nights in Armathia when she had stayed up waiting for him to come, he had gone to his Steward instead. The very thought of the base practice her husband engaged in made the nausea rise within her once more. She shut her eyes, breathing in through her nose in an attempt to quell it, wiping at the tracks of tears beneath her eyes. Without bidding, a hopeful little thought sprang to mind: _He doesn’t understand. I am one of Zathár’s chosen. I can show him. I can save him from this—_

She stamped out the thoughts as soon as they came. She had tried broaching the subject of Zathár with him days earlier. She knew where he stood. He would be impossible to convince on that matter, especially now that she knew why he had discarded her freely given heart. Hope for his redemption was folly: he was beyond saving. He wanted a Steward instead of a wife.

 _This whole time I have been a joke to him: the naïve wife of a base, vile man._ She felt as though the scales had been ripped off of her eyes. She could finally see. It hurt – it hurt so much to have her heart’s greatest hopes dashed – but everything had finally come together with blinding clarity.

Her father’s fears had not been baseless after all. _I will show him. I’ll show him, for having made a fool of me all the while, for subjecting me to the pitying glances of others, for putting me second to a sailor_.

She stood, purposeful, patting her eyes dry with a sleeve. She went first to the washbasin where she splashed her face with water, then moved to her vanity. She smoothed down her hair, mussed as it was from her sun hat, before dabbing a bit of perfume upon each wrist and the hollow of her throat. A thought occurred to her as she stared at her reflection. She spun around, crossing the room to throw open the lid to her sea chest. On top lay the vellum-pressed crowns she and Valory had worn on their wedding day. She lifted them from the trunk, weighing them in her hands before making her decision.

It took a tremendous amount of effort and several attempts before she was able to use her enchantment to make a spark that took. She leaned against the post of her bed, panting, as the fire licked at the circlets of little white flowers. As the fire began to near her fingertips she cast the crowns into the empty hearth and watched them burn.

Soon ash was all that was left. She left the room then, striding through the corridors with purpose, returning the greetings of those she passed with a bland smile. When she reached the door she was looking for, she was annoyed to find a manservant stood outside.

“I must speak with Lord Samir,” she said, moving towards the handle.

“I’m sorry my Lady, but he is not receiving visitors,” the manservant replied, stepping in front of her.

“He _will_ receive me,” she demanded. “This cannot wait.”

Samir must have heard their voices, for the door swung inward at that, causing the manservant to stumble. “Cousin, is everything alright?”

“No.” She brushed past the manservant into the sitting room of Samir’s apartments to regard the candles lit around the room. He had been praying.

The door shut behind them, leaving them in privacy. “ _What has happened_?”

“ _I have failed. The Regent has no love-regard for me, nor will he ever. He has another, and has since long before we were wed_.” She met his eyes. “ _He is bound to his Steward_.”

“ _Are you certain_?”

“ _Yes_.”

“ _Cousin_ ,” he said, taking her hand, “ _I know this grieves you. I’m sorry to see you in such pain_.”

“ _No_ ,” she replied, shaky yet resolute, a hand clasped around her mother’s locket, “ _there is no need. This will pass. I have my duty, I have an ally in you, and soon my work will bear fruit and our Lord will return. I will not_ —” she took a steadying breath “ _I will *not* be made a fool of_.”

“ _Perhaps, if there’s a way to contact your father_ —”

“ _I would not dare to ask our Lord to do so on my behalf, not to discuss a child of *Eramen_ *,” she spat. For all of her fierce words, however, she ached on the inside; the thought of hearing her father’s ‘I-told-you-so’ was more than she could bear. “ _I will write him. Our Lord has told me that his mind is not as strong-sure as mine, that he cannot support as much contact as I can_.”

Samir bowed his head. “ _Alright, then. You may use my writing desk at your leisure_.”

“ _Very well_.” She squared her shoulders.

Samir reached out before she could make for the desk, laying a hand upon her arm. “ _There is no shame in mourning what you have lost. None will think less of you for it_.” At her blank stare, he continued. “ _I have given much thought to the words we’ve exchanged on the matter, and whether you believe it now or not, you must know that you have imparted much rare-new-wisdom_.”

A sob built up in the back of her throat. “ _I feel neither strong nor wise at this moment_.”

“ _It takes courage to offer up a heart, cousin – courage which you have shown. You would have regretted doing otherwise. It is Valory whose decisions will haunt him_.”

She nodded, swallowing, tears stinging her eyes once more. “ _Yet I fear it will take some time before this newfound knowledge ceases to grieve me._ ”

“ _You are only human, cousin – however exceptional-visionary a one_.”

“ _Will you pray with me for a while? Perhaps our Lord will see fit to grace us with his words. It would grant me great comfort_.”

“ _Of course, cousin_ ,” he said, drawing her towards a prayer bench.

She sank down next to him, pressing her palms together and praying in silence. She would be steadfast – dauntless – just like the mother and grandmother she had never known. She would do their memory proud. Drawing her gaze inward, she focused on the darkness behind her eyelids, on the calming cool presence of her God as she strung together the consonants of her mother tongue.

_Lord below, if you see fit to answer my call, please give me strength . . ._

…

_The third waxing month: 3, 3_

The stone of the altar was warm where it pressed patterns into his knees. Obed felt the muscles in his legs trembling as he fought to hold the position; to stand or sit would demonstrate unthinkable disrespect. Aching joints were a small price to pay if his prayers could lend his Lord some amount of strength and aid his brother on the campaign into the peninsula.

Obed shut his eyes, breathing deeply and attempting to reach a trance-like state, the same sort that he had used to make contact with the Lord Zathár for the very first time. As he welcomed the state of meditative calm that spread through him, he was unsurprised to feel the now-familiar cold press at the edges of his thoughts. He let his Lord in without question, willing his body to remain upright as Zathár siphoned off some of his strength to maintain the connection.

 _“My Lord_ ,” he greeted as a series of scrambled images passed before his eyelids.

_“Your brother’s work has pleased me.”_

Relief washed through Obed’s frame at the statement, whispered as it was into the back of his mind. An image accompanied it, of Alvar at the head of a great army bound for the foothills of the Western Mountains. The crossing would be brutal even in these milder months, even with Zathár’s aid. “ _Please keep him safe, my Lord. He is one of your most humble servants.”_

_“He has my protection. His armies march under my power.”_

_“Have they been difficult, my Lord? Are you in need of rest?”_

A series of images flashed in his mind’s eye, visions of locker-marked creatures swarming several Westernese border towns. He found it difficult to witness, reminding himself all the while that such acts and alliances were necessary to restore Zathár – and Dramor’s – rightful claims to power. He knew that his Lord struggled to control those he had called out of the locker; on occasion he had to make concessions to their baser natures in order to keep their favor. Though tied to him they still retained some of their humanity – each with their own agendas. His Lord had told him as much when they first crawled from the locker and he had ordered the city gates barred against them, fearing what they might do when left idle. He was glad that the campaign through the West had given them a suitable outlet for their corrupted natures, though he wondered whether or not allowing them to raze border towns was wise.

Zathár must have picked upon his discomfiture. “ _The tribes of the West will not raise arms against me. They are a useful tool, but weak with need. They will not cross me out of fear of losing what I have promised.”_

_“What about the Belenese Commodore?”_

_“He is a traitor. The others will be advised.”_

_“Good, my Lord. And the girl-prophetess?”_

_“She remains steadfast. She will be in Anaphe to welcome your brother when he arrives._ ”

 _“I’m glad of it.”_ He felt his body begin to protest its position once more, fatigue setting in as Zathár took his strength and used it to further their cause. “ _Is there anything else you need from me?”_

_“That is all.”_

Obed felt the connection snap, sending a reverberating twinge through his mind. He slumped forward on the altar, back in his body once more. An attempt to push himself up on hands and knees failed. He was so sapped of strength that he could hardly move. This pleased him; he knew it self-serving to think so, but such occasions reminded him how essential he was to their cause.

He was dimly aware of the press of several pairs of hands upon him, bearing him up off the warm stone floor and back towards a soft day bed that had been placed at the other end of the room for such occasions. They had become more common of late, and he was glad that his underlings would not have to strain themselves by carrying him very far. They had protested that lifting his thin frame was never a true difficulty, but Obed hated the thought of being a burden.

He smiled as they laid him down on the mattress, vision darkening at the edges. He would rest and restore his strength that he might be some help to his Lord once more when he woke. That thought warmed him. He sent up one last prayer for his brother’s safety as he dropped off into a deep sleep, visions of eons-old mountains appearing behind his eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter that was fun to write. (The number of words that I have added to my Microsoft Word dictionary because of this story makes me laugh every time I think about it.)
> 
> This story arc is pretty big and sometimes continuity is difficult, but one of the things I really wanted to do was foreshadow and drop little Easter eggs when I could. I'm trying to limit the things I write about / details I mention to things that are important to fleshing out the story. A lot of the things I mention repeatedly are just in the name of character development (I try to keep the way they take their coffee consistent, for example; I know it's silly but details, details.) Others, like Sybina's conversation with Landon on the Rhane, serve explicit plot purposes.
> 
> I guess what I want to know is: did you guess that the vambraces would be the way that Sybina found Val and Arden out long before this chapter, or was it the kind of thing that suddenly made sense in retrospect? It's hard for me to gauge how these things come off, since I can practically recite the chapter from memory at this point.
> 
> Once again thanks for reading and letting me share all of this with you guys :)


	11. Chapter 11

_The Season of Renewal  
Illád the 3; 2422_

It wasn’t until they saw smoke on the horizon that they realized aught was amiss. A word with the Commodore confirmed Arden’s suspicions; they were passing the contested land between Belen and Januz – areas that often became the stomping grounds of opposing armies in times of war.

Belen was many miles behind them, straddled over the mouth of one of the West’s great rivers. After much debate Arden had elected to allow Félix up on deck as they passed – part of the wary truce they had reached after leaving Anaphe. Their course took them far enough to the south that the city appeared no more than low sprawl on the horizon, yet Félix had remained on deck for the better part of an hour, eyes fixed on his homeland. Despite Callum’s worst fears he made no attempt to escape, and went below without remark once his city had disappeared from view.

Several days had gone since then, and they had made good time up the coastline. Arden estimated that they were only a day or two from the mouth of the next river, and though he wanted nothing more than to press onward, something told him that it would be a mistake to ignore the thick black smoke that shrouded the horizon.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Niko asked, words stressed by the exertion of handling his oar.

“I’m not about to take _Windjammer_ upriver through the middle of a battle,” Arden replied, handling his own oar in time with Niko’s strokes.

“Aren’t they supposed to be having their peaceful meeting right now?”

“The tribal council is not always peaceful,” Félix said. He was perched in the bow, hands manacled with a long chain hanging between them.

“Couldn’t it just be a forest fire? I know southern Anaphe suffered drought this year.”

“Would you prefer we stake our safety on the supposition that this wasn’t an act of warfare?” Arden asked.

Niko grunted. “I still don’t think it’s a good idea to row ashore in broad daylight, carefree-as-you-please. If someone went after that village, what’s to stop them from coming after us?”

Arden nodded towards the bow where the Commodore sat. “We’re not going unprotected.”

Félix seemed to care little that he was being used as a bargaining chip; his attention was fixed instead on the docks of the village. Arden understood his focus; a curl of dread tickled at the back of his mind each time he regarded the smoldering dockside buildings. The dread both made him want to abort their attempt at reconnaissance, and solidified his belief that such reconnaissance would prove necessary.

Niko and Lars secured the launch when they reached the dock, catching up with the rest of the group once more as they passed the abandoned fish market and made for the town proper. Arden kept Félix close by his side; the Commodore walked between him and Ehrin, who had foregone her skirts and kept a wary hand on her cutlass. It seemed that he and Niko weren’t the only ones spooked by the town’s appearance.

The street was still and silent, absent even the calls of sea birds, with market stalls left abandoned and doorways open as though their minders had all been called away. As the alleyway they traversed opened up into one of the village’s main thoroughfares, their uneasiness was made justified. They had found the missing villagers, though they, too, were as still as the rest of the town. Men and women lay together in the street where they had been slain, some clutching weapons, others struck down as they fled.

“Oh, Gods,” Ehrin whispered, her voice cracking on the words.

Arden swallowed against the bile that rose in his throat at the sight – and stench – of the place. He forced himself to analyze rather than feel, to think rather than mourn. He could grieve over this senseless massacre later, when they were safely back aboard _Windjammer_. For now it was his duty to get to the bottom of this horror, and he would do it as best as he could.

Coming back to himself, he realized that he had lost track of Félix in his distraction. Cursing his foolishness, he spun around, halting when he saw Félix standing over a pair of face-down bodies, head bowed and fists balled. Ehrin stood beside him, a hand over her mouth. Arden moved to approach them.

“ _This village is Belenese_ ,” Félix said, voice hoarse. He indicated the bodies that lay before them. One was smaller; it was a boy of about ten, hand still clutching a rough-hewn wood carving.

“How do you know?” Arden asked.

“ _The boy’s carving is the armored riverfish. It is my family’s sigil_.” He looked back at Arden. “ _This territory is a constant battleground, but no matter who the tithes are paid to, the people have centuries-old affiliations. These are – were – my people._ ”

“Do you think this is Januz’s work?”

Félix bent down, rolling over the figure that lay next to the boy. Arden judged her to be his mother based on her age, but it was not her face that drew his eye. Whoever had taken her life had not done a clean job of it. Arden had never seen anything so gruesome. She had met her end by blade, but her murderer had continued the attack long after she drew her last breath.

“ _Januzians do not try to carve their victims into pieces. Especially not when fighting over territory._ ”

Arden felt Ehrin’s fingers digging into his arm and turned in time to see all of the blood drain from her face. “Go,” he said. She needed no more encouragement, fleeing to a row of hedges several paces away and retching pitifully.

“ _I suspect the child would look very much the same, if we turned him over as well_.”

“I’d rather not,” Arden said, voice wooden. “Could this be the work of a creature?”

“ _I have never in my days seen such a thing._ ” He drew his eyes away from the mother and son. _“I know the work of creatures, and this is not it. It is men alone who kill with such violence; creatures do not find joy in the desecration of the bodies of their victims._ ”

“Jack,” Niko said from the other end of the street, urgent, “the bodies over here—”

“I know. These as well.”

“This one’s insides have been pulled out, Jack, it’s—” Niko broke off. At the hedges, Ehrin retched again, wiping her mouth before walking away from their conversation in an attempt to pull herself together.

“Are all the bodies so mutilated?” he asked.

Lars spoke up, a somber counterpart to Niko’s agitation. “All that I’ve seen so far, yeh. There are different methods here, Jack. Look at these two by me: same wounds, maybe killed by the same hand. But they don’t look a thing like the ones you have over there.”

It made a terrible sort of sense as soon as Lars spoke. The idea that the killing was mindful or methodical was deeply disturbing, but Arden’s eyes began picking out patterns in spite of himself. “What does that tell us, then?” he asked.

“I can’t say whether it’s any use, but I could track the way this one moved,” Lars said. “The next one he got his hands on was that woman over there.”

Arden knew that there were men who committed such atrocities, who took lives over and over for the pleasure of it, and wouldn’t stop until they themselves were hung. He had even seen the execution of such a man on Kilcoran several years back. The man had met his end with defiance, leveling a remorseless smile at the gathered crowd that had been chilling to witness. Yet Arden had never heard of a man like that taking so many victims at a time, nor one who hunted his prey as part of a pack.

“What is it, Jack?” Lars asked.

“ _Something is wrong,_ ” Félix said.

Arden thought over the words of the High Priest and all of the work they had done before leaving Armathia, trying to understand the threat upon their borders. He couldn’t imagine who or what else would be responsible for the massacre they looked upon. What they fought was as terrible as Arden had feared.

“I think we are looking at the work of Zathár’s foot soldiers,” he said.

“Dramor?” Niko asked.

“No – Zathár’s fellows.” He looked away from the bodies at his feet. “Those that came with him when he broke free of the locker.”

Ehrin’s startled shriek pierced the air. She reappeared at the end of the street, backpedaling away from whatever she had found around the corner, scrabbling for the hilt of her cutlass as she did. Arden took off at a sprint without a moment’s hesitation, drawing his own cutlass with a ring as he neared her side.

In the street before them advanced a handful of figures – ten, perhaps, though he wasn’t about to stop to get an accurate count. Man-like, they advanced quickly but with an odd stiffness in their gait, as though they were puppets being manipulated by strings. They wore the cobbled together clothing and armament of their victims, yet that was where the similarities in appearance ended. One had the pallor of Dramorian features while another sported the bleached white hair of a Sarian. There was a woman with dark skin and a man with a mane of red curls. They were not bound by race, but by another commonality entirely: Illen had deemed them unworthy to go east, and Fángon had borne their souls down to the deep instead.

They were men and women of the locker, the reanimated servants of Zathár. They seemed almost human in appearance but for the cold, black, empty sockets where eyes were meant to be. The sight of them sent sick horror lancing through Arden’s gut, fear pulling at his mind and nearly causing his hands to shake.

Arden raised his cutlass as they drew near. One of them sprang forward at him out of the pack; for all of the emptiness of its eyes, it could still somehow sense him. The attack was sloppy and aggressive, allowing Arden to land a glancing blow on its arm. He was surprised to see the man-like thing bleed red, and still more disturbed by the placid expression it wore. _They feel no pain_ , he realized, blocking another blow with his cutlass.

Beside him Ehrin had been joined by Niko and Lars, the three of them working together to drive a wedge through their enemies, standing their ground even though they had only just seen what would befall them should they fail. Arden fought with renewed vigor at the sight, evading his opponent’s sloppy parry to sink his cutlass into the flesh below its breastbone. He was stunned when the thing fought on; he managed to catch the vicious arc of its blade with his rig knife just in time. Arden jerked his cutlass from the thing’s stomach, only then seeing that it had begun to stagger. He danced backward out of its reach; it attempted another half-hearted swipe before collapsing on the ground.

As soon as it dropped two more of the things were upon him, one bearing a long pole axe that had a reach his cutlass could not rival. Caught wrong-footed, it was only luck that kept him from having his skull split open as he stumbled, rolling his ankle while avoiding the strike. He grit his teeth as he dodged away from his opponents, trying to prevent the smaller of the two from flanking him. He parried a blow from its short sword, ankle throbbing as he escaped yet another swing of the pole axe.

He saw a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and thought for a terrible moment that a third had come after him. He looked up just in time to watch Félix, armed with the sword of a felled opponent, drag the axe-wielder backwards by a fistful of hair. Before the thing could strike against him, Félix had slit its throat. He let it drop to the ground, turning with intent, using his height as leverage for several vicious strikes against his second opponent. On the final blow he managed to force its blade down, wrapping his own around the thing’s wrist. He wrenched it towards him, disarming the creature before jamming its own blade back through its torso in a single powerful stroke.

Arden stared at Félix’s manacled hands as the second creature fell. _Gods, he did that with his wrists still bound_. There was no time to remedy the situation, however, for Niko, Lars, and Ehrin remained in a tight knot on the other side of the street, attempting to fight off more than they could easily handle. They were all too close together for Arden to dare risking the use of his enchantment; by way of silent agreement he and Félix came to their aid side-by-side, weapons at the ready.

He choked back his surprise as Félix used the chain that bound his wrists as a garrote, looping it around one of the thing’s necks and yanking.  As it stumbled he grasped its head, snapping its neck with an audible crack. Arden had engaged an opponent of his own in the meantime, but had barely dealt a killing stroke of his own before Félix had disarmed a second.

The skirmish began to tip in their favor at that. Making a fruitless effort not to think too hard about what they were battling, Arden disposed of his final opponent after a few minutes, wondering whether or not its skill with a sword could be attributed to skills gained during its lifetime – whenever that had been – or whether they had been bestowed after returning from the locker.

Arden’s experience of battle was that it always started and ended suddenly, leaving hollow silence in its wake. When his final opponent fell he swung around, expecting another to spring up where none stood. He blew out a shaky sigh of relief, blood still thrumming in his veins, heartbeat pounding in his ears. Coming back to himself he checked on his men, favoring his ankle as he did.

His eyes fell first on Félix. For a moment he thought the man had been hurt; he had sunk to his knees in the middle of the road, weapons hanging limp in his hands. It was not physical pain that so paralyzed him, however. He was fixed on the face of one of their attackers, head bowed, true horror twisting his features.

He looked up, feeling the weight of Arden’s stare. His eyes were haunted. “ _This is the mark of the locker_.” He spoke of the empty sockets set in the faces of their attackers.

Arden nodded. “It is.”

Félix’s voice shook with vehemence. “ _This is what I have allied with. This is how my service was repaid._ ” He looked around the street, eyes catching on the lifeless bodies of the villagers. “ _These were my people, and this is what I have brought upon them_.”

“Zathár cares not for human lives,” Arden said. “Did you think I would have invented such tales of his deeds, of what he would bring?”

Félix’s breath came out in ragged gasps. “ _This is my punishment_.”

“What, for failing him in the isles? This would have come no matter what. As long as he sees use in you he will use the reminder of this town as a threat to keep you under his thumb—”

“ _Enough_.” His voice cracked on the word. “ _I can see it now. Does that please you? I can finally see what you wanted me to see_.”

“Do you truly think that this would please me?”

“ _You have convinced me. You have secured my aid in making an alliance of men_.”

Arden shook his head. “But at what cost?”

Félix looked down once more. “ _This is on my shoulders. All of it_.”

Arden wasn’t sure what to say to that. It was, after all, no more than the truth.

“Help me fix this.” The abrupt switch back to Oceanic had Arden’s undivided attention. “It is not my right to ask more of you,” Félix continued, “but still I ask. Help me right this wrong that I have done.”

Niko let out a derisive snort. “Oh _now_ he wants peace with us, does he? How convenient.”

“ _Please_.”

Félix turned the two blades he held over in his hands, holding them out hilt-first. Arden could scarcely believe his eyes or ears. Niko snorted again at the display. The Ithakan was right: the timing was nothing if not convenient, and treachery wasn’t a thing that Arden was prepared to rule out. Yet for all of that, Arden knew that Félix had begun to question his convictions weeks earlier. If anything could push him to turn against Zathár it would be this: an act of violence against his people. Arden found it difficult to doubt his sincerity.

As if to underscore his words, Ehrin spoke up next. “I believe him.” Her words were garbled by the kerchief she held to her mouth.

“You’re bleeding. Split lip?” Arden asked, making a note of how Félix’s head whipped around to regard her at his words.

“Yeh, you know how they are.”

“ _Which one hit you?_ ”

Ehrin rolled her eyes at his tone. “What are you going to do, kill it a second – no, I guess that’d be a _third_ – time on my behalf?”

Félix opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it and turned to Arden instead, raising manacled hands and offering the blades once more. “This is how peace is made by my people.”

“And if I don’t accept?” Arden asked.

“I remain your prisoner. But I will not shame myself further by continuing to fight for – for _this_.” He spat upon the unseeing body at his feet.

Arden found that his decision had been made easy, enough so that he wondered whether it would come around to bite him in the end. With Félix finally agreeing to ally with Oceana they had crossed one of the greatest hurdles in the way of bringing aid to Anaphe. Such an alliance meant that Félix would finally be free to move around the ship unrestrained, however, and Arden knew that allowing it would be a risk. _But wouldn’t continuing to treat him as a prisoner be the greater risk of the two?_

He reached out, accepting the two blades. “We’ve gotten off to a difficult start, and have both participated in things we regret. I would wipe the slate clean and start again as allies, if you would.”

“Jack—” Niko was not of a like mind. Arden held up a hand, forestalling any further objections.

“Many of us will not forgive so easily. I can’t speak for my crew where these matters are concerned, but I can assure you that they will do you no harm.”

“I do not expect forgiveness,” Félix replied. “Even without I will accept this offer.”

“Very well. Ehrin you have the keys, don’t you? Let’s get these cuffs off.” He turned, laying the blades down in the road. “I assume you would prefer better armament for yourself.”

Félix raised a brow. “You will allow me to carry arms?”

“Having finally seen you fight, I suspect that doing otherwise wouldn’t serve much purpose. If you sought to, you would get your hands on a weapon one way or another.”

“You are like Miss Ehrin,” he said, holding out his hands to be freed. ‘You show me much trust.”

“I have little other choice,” Arden admitted. “I hope that this way I can earn respect rather than resentment.”

Félix nodded. “I seek the same.”

Arden held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Félix stepped forward to clasp forearms. “Well met, Félix son of Laszlo.”

“Arden son of Miran,” Félix echoed. “We do this differently here.”

“How so?”

Félix took another half-step forward, bringing his free arm around Arden’s shoulders to thump him in the back with his fist. “It is a sign of trust between warriors to allow such a thing.”

Arden returned the gesture, seeing it for what it was: a promise to never betray the other’s trust by coming at his back. “Good,” he said. “With that sorted, I think it best we get out of here while our luck holds. It doesn’t seem like there are any more of these things skulking around, but I’d rather not be proved wrong.”

They started back towards the docks, Ehrin walking with Félix as he searched for a suitable weapon. Arden had only gone a few steps before Niko rounded on him, Lars shrugging in sympathy.

“I don’t like this. I don’t understand this, either. How can you care so little about what happened to Ithaka and Kilcoran?”

“Don’t accuse me of that – you know better,” Arden replied. “Belen and Januz committed inexcusable acts. They will pay penance for them. Indeed, it looks as though that penance has already begun.” He sighed. “The Commodore made a deal with a demon, one that he did not understand the true nature of until very recently. It doesn’t erase the past, but it may allow us to move forward with an alliance of men.”

“They still attacked Oceana,” Niko protested.

“There will be no more Oceana if we cannot stop squabbling with our neighbors,” Arden replied. “We need help, and that’s the end of it.”

Niko scowled. “I don’t like him, and I don’t trust him.”

“We’ll keep a sharp eye out,” Arden promised. “If I agree to that, will you try to see Zathár as our true enemy in the Commodore’s stead?”

“I’m trying, but that’s the man who—”

“Niko.”

“Alright,” he said, gritting his teeth, “but only because it’s you doing the asking. And he’d better keep his paws off of our girl.” Lars let out a huff of agreement.

“I have a feeling she’d tell you to mind your own affairs.” Arden’s eyes wandered back over to where Félix and Ehrin walked, nearly shoulder-to-shoulder.

“She trusts him too much,” Niko said.

“Or perhaps she sees something that we don’t,” Arden replied, even if he would have been happier if she were more careful around the Commodore now that she had seen what he was capable of.

Then again, perhaps she had already seen what he was capable of, albeit in an entirely different manner.

“It’s the way she _is_ , Jack – it always comes around in the end,” Niko continued.

“Maybe, but I suspect this is one of those things she needs to learn for herself. If you continue to try and step in on her behalf, the rest of your rum rations will be going straight to the river in short order.”

Niko snorted, taking up his oar as they reached the launch. “The worst part is, I know you’re right.”

…

Ehrin found Félix on the foredeck steps, an apple in hand and eyes focused on the flag that flapped above his head. It had been his idea to fly Belenese colors while passing through Januzian territory; a risk at any other time of year, but on this occasion it allowed them to navigate the river delta unmolested. The progress past the city had occurred that morning and called for all hands; a call that Ehrin hadn’t minded in the slightest.

They had all found the sight of the city fascinating, even Niko forgetting himself and firing questions off at the Commodore. The architecture, the ships, even the clothing of the men and women who strolled the riverbanks were all different from what they were used to. Ehrin had been amazed by the array of bright colors all of the houses were painted, but her favorite part of the city was how the buildings boasted gardens upon their roofs, the vines of tropical flowers climbing down to hang over the sides of many of the riverside structures. Félix had told her it was the same in Belen, and that the plants kept houses cooler and shaded the streets from the hot sun. She never would have imagined that the cities of the Western states would have been so fine and beautiful.

Once they passed the city proper she had gone below to arrange for the afternoon meal – a simple, light affair – and returned to deck glad that she had another hour before her own watch started. She had hardly seen Félix at all since they made land in the village some days past. His time had been occupied by Arden and her father; they had much to speak of regarding the navigation of both the river, and the river people’s council customs.

As she approached him, she noticed that he was flipping something small and shiny between his fingers, letting it roll over his knuckles before palming it once more, fingers worrying at its smooth edges. Closer inspection revealed that it was the good luck coin from the cake they shared on the Day of Banishment. He looked down from the rig, taking a bite of his apple and meeting her eyes. He must have realized that she had noticed the coin, for he held it up to give her a better look before pocketing it once more. She felt something warm settle in her chest at the thought that he had carried it with him all this while.

“We could use a bit of luck,” she said, leaning up against the pin rail beside him.

“Perhaps we will get some. Perhaps I will be able to undo the misery I have caused.”

“I hope so too.” It shouldn’t have surprised her that, once he saw Zathár’s true nature, he would throw himself wholeheartedly into an alliance with Oceana: Félix did nothing by halves. Even though she didn’t doubt his sincerity, the turnabout still confused her.

“You seem unsure of my words.”

She shrugged, watching him take another bite out of the crisp apple. “You’ve been telling me to give up hope for you for so long that I had started to believe you. It’s a bit sudden, is all. It’ll take some getting used to.”

Félix shook his head, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “ _You of all people should know that I was not as sure of my actions as I would have liked to believe. I’ve been conflicted for some months; you and your superiors did not make it easy to remain complacent with my decision to make a deal with a demon._ ”

“Zathár wouldn’t have honored your deal.”

 _“I know that now_.”

“I just wish it hadn’t taken such a terrible thing to make you see it,” she admitted. She knew he could hear the disappointment in her tone.

“It was not the village that did this. _It was a catalyst, perhaps, but on its own it would not have had the same impact_.”

She was certain there was something he wasn’t telling her, and couldn’t help but wish he would be less abstruse. She cast her gaze over the side, past the murky water of the river to observe the lush jungle beyond. The crunch of Félix taking another bite out of his apple punctuated the silence. Ehrin frowned. There was something about his words that didn’t add up. A thought nagged at the back of her mind.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Before we became friendly I wasn’t afraid to go see you in the hold because I knew you were manacled. Now I know that restraints made little difference; I saw what you did when we went ashore. You could have overpowered me. Why didn’t you? After we last left Armathia, you even knew that I carried the keys.”

“ _As I said on the deck the other day, there was no use in my escape. My life may be forfeit because of my failure in the isles. They will think I have been compromised._ ”

“They wouldn’t have thought you compromised in the beginning,” she replied.

Félix flicked the apple core overboard, watching it disappear in _Windjammer_ ’s wake. “ _I may have made a deal with a demon, but I had my own set of terms. No women, no children._ ”

“Oh.” She hated how disappointed she sounded at his answer. What had she expected, that she was somehow special to him? That her words had been instrumental in turning him to their side? _I should know better by now. He is kind to me because I am the hand that feeds him_.

Félix continued, unaware of her thoughts. “ _They were wise to send you down to me. At first I would not raise arms against you because it was against what I stood for – even if you had struck me first. It bought you time to chip away at the logic I had constructed to excuse my actions, words which your Regent and Steward supported. I convinced myself that I was biding time, but it didn’t take long before I realized that I could not go through you to make my escape because . . . well. I could not. That’s all there is to it.”_ There was a heavy pause. She started scrambling for words with which to compose a reply, yet sensed that he hadn’t yet said his piece. He looked back up at her, mouth pressed into a thin line. “ _You are not wrong, though. Just because I ultimately found myself unable to do so doesn’t mean I didn’t consider it. Zathár ordered me to try_.”

“Did he order you to go through me?” she asked, pieces falling into place. This was what he had been keeping from her, why he had begged her not to put faith in him.

“ _He wanted me to take your keys to free myself. The thought was repulsive. I could not raise a hand to you in violence._ ”

“Because I am a woman,” Ehrin said, voice flat.

“ _No. Because you are Ehrin._ ”

She took a shaky breath, trying not to read too much into words that she still struggled to translate. “When was this?”

“ _Not long after we left Anaphe. The timing was precise; days later you and Lord Arden brought me out of the hold. Then the village happened. Put together, my path became clear._ ”He cast his eyes back out to the river. _“It was only a matter of time before I saw such atrocities and realized what Zathár was. You knew that would be the case, didn’t you?_ ”

“I had hoped,” she said. She tried not to think about what it meant that he couldn’t raise arms against her: that he struggled to do so not because she was a woman or some sort of symbol of innocence, but because she was ‘ _Ehrin_ ’. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Such thoughts were not for public contemplation. Setting them aside for later, she changed the subject. “At the town,” she said, drawing his gaze back to her, “how did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“I watched you disarm one of your opponents. It was so fast,” she said, making no attempt to hide her admiration of his swordsmanship.

Félix seemed grateful for the change of subject; they had been straying into dangerous territory. “It is simple once you learn.”

Ehrin doubted that. “I’m sure.”

“Many do not try it because you must be so close to do it.” He switched back to Belenese then, standing and holding out his arms to demonstrate the precise movements he had used. “ _You need to be able to touch their pommel with your free hand, which means you would be close enough for them to touch yours. It’s a risk, and one not worth taking if they have a guard on their hilt._ ” He mimed striking out against an opponent with an invisible cutlass. “ _Use your strength to push their blade down. Ideally the tip would point to the deck; the angle allows you to wrap your blade around their wrist and force the grip from their hands. The wrist is weak in that position. They cannot fight it._ ”

She watched his hands twine around one another, understanding half of what he said but trying to picture how it would look with actual weaponry all the same. “What if they have a knife?” she asked, squinting at him.

“It is more dangerous, of course. It is very difficult against a Dramorian,” he admitted.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why couldn’t they guard against it, or hold onto their weapon?”

He gave her a long look, eyes falling to rest on the weapon at her hip. “I will show you, if you like.”

“Really?” At Félix’s nod she sprang up, drawing her cutlass. Belatedly she realized that an attempt at a spar would be misconstrued by the rest of the crew and looked back at the helm, motioning towards her blade with a sheepish smile. Her father hesitated, shooting a mistrustful glance in Félix’s direction, before nodding his assent.

“Your father does not approve,” Félix said.

“He’s not yet convinced that you mean me no harm. He’ll come around.”

The look on Félix’s face let her know that he wasn’t holding out hope for a change of heart on Callum’s part. He rolled his shoulders, raising his own cutlass. “Engage me, before he changes his mind.”

She let her blade tap against his, not wanting to make a hard strike without his direction. Félix let their weapons meet, holding the position and rattling off clipped explanations of his movements, occasionally lapsing back into his mother tongue when he couldn’t find the Oceanic words. She didn’t understand some of what he said – she lacked the precise vocabulary for combat – but his gestures were enough to compensate for the language barrier. She let him push her cutlass down, watching as he turned his own blade over to dodge beneath, then around the underside of her wrist. His free hand came out to grab the pommel of her cutlass, preventing her from rolling her wrist over and breaking the grip. Her fingers were loose around the hilt, so all it took was a soft tug to rob her of it.

“Oh,” she said, the mechanics crystallizing in her mind, “I think I understand. Can I try?”

“Yes. Half-speed,” he instructed, handing her cutlass back hilt-first.

He engaged her, making a few slow strikes before allowing her to draw near. One she was in position she pushed his blade down, wrapping hers around his wrist. She made contact with the pommel and jerking it back towards her. She felt a moment’s pleasure at performing the skill properly before frowning down at her hands.

“You weren’t holding on, were you?” she asked.

“I was using my tightest grip. As I said, the wrist has no strength at that angle.”

“Really?”

He cocked a brow at her. “ _Shall we try it faster_?”

They repeated the exercise several more times until she was able to disarm him in real time. She smiled all the while, pride and excitement building within her. Félix’s habitual frown had relaxed; the pleasure he drew from teaching her something worthwhile was evident. She glanced back to the quarterdeck, noting that Jack had joined her father at the helm. Both were watching intently. Between bouts she gave a wave, happy to see the answering smile on Jack’s face, at least – even if her father wasn’t yet pleased with the situation.

“They are not interfering,” Félix observed after another successful completion of the exercise.

“That’s ‘cause they want to see me knock you on your arse,” Ehrin replied, leveling him with a cocky grin.

“Is that so?”

“Let’s spar.”

Félix hesitated. “It is not the same. I have been holding back.”

“And I haven’t been? Come on, Félix.”

“I do not want to hurt you,” he insisted.

She knew that he meant well, but couldn’t help the little flare of resentment that came along with his words. “You’re not the only one who has been doing this since you little. You’re not going to hurt me.”

After another long pause he relented, moving into a ready stance. She knew she surprised him when she sprang at him; he hadn’t expected the energy that she could throw into a duel. At first she allowed herself a bit of conceit: she was holding her own and pleased with her performance. After several minutes she realized that Félix had been feeling out her technique; when he finally went on the offensive she found herself losing ground at a rapid rate. He was a whole head taller than her, with a reach that put hers to shame. The impact of his blade upon hers jarred the bones of her hand and forearm. She held out as long as she could, maneuvering into position to disarm him. She thought herself clever for feinting to get into the right stance, but when the time came to push his blade down she found that she couldn’t; his height gave him too much leverage – leverage which he used to disarm _her_ instead.

“ _You gave away your intent_ ,” he said, lips twitching as he fought down a triumphant smirk.

She couldn’t help feeling miffed at how easily she had been bested. “Well yeh, but how else am I supposed to get at your pommel?”

“ _You did not guard me from trying to do the same_.”

“How could I have stopped you?” she asked.

“ _You could not have._ ”

She sighed. He was right: her Da may have put her first cutlass in her hands at age seven, but she was nowhere near his equal. If she were honest with herself, she had known that going in; else she’d not have admired his form as she had. She took her cutlass back from his outstretched hand, swallowing her pride.

“Okay, alright, you’re better at this than I am,” she admitted before squaring her shoulders, meeting his eyes once more. “Let’s have another go.”

“I don’t know—”

“I’ll never get better if you won’t let me practice,” she said. She could see the flash of respect in his eyes. She cradled it close, comforting herself with the knowledge that, even if he could best her without breaking a sweat, at least he didn’t think less of her for it.

“Ready stance,” he said, the voice of an instructor, and they were off once more.

The number and variety of ways that he managed to take her cutlass from her in the succeeding bouts amazed her. He had started off by using the technique he had showed her before branching out to different ones that had her blade wrenched from her grip before she even saw him coming. There was something a bit insulting about the way he didn’t only disarm her, but _took_ her blade from her. She tried to temper her annoyance by reminding herself that a less skilled opponent – or a less controlled disarm – could land her cutlass overboard.

The competitive part of her couldn’t quite manage such gratitude, however, and she fought with increasing effort to hold onto her weapon. His infuriating, triumphant smirks made it clear that he enjoyed wiping the deck with her. Perhaps on another occasion it would have tempted her to call the afternoon in his favor and be done with it, but between bouts he always took the time to demonstrate exactly what she had done wrong. She continued on against an impossible opponent in spite of her annoyance, knowing that she was learning more in those few minutes than she had in years. The relative humiliation of being trounced in front of Jack and her father was soothed by the expressions of surprised pleasure that passed across his features each time she adjusted her form and implemented one of his corrections.

That didn’t stop her from making a frustrated growl the next time she was disarmed, however. Félix rocked back on his heels, imparting another piece of advice.

“ _I can counter your attacks because I know what’s coming. You must come at your opponent when and where he does not expect it._ ”

Ehrin rolled her eyes. “You’ll always expect it.”

“ _Then it is a good thing we will never again face one another as enemies_.”

His statement pleased her more than it should have, frustration ebbing away at the half-smile that turned the corners of his lips. She took back her cutlass and they started up again, Ehrin trying to follow his advice as best as she could. If he expected her to try to disarm him, then she’d give that up and attempt to best him some other way – overmatched or not.

When Félix got a hold of her free wrist, spinning her around and twisting it behind her back, she realized that she should have known he would see what she was doing and react in turn. She tried to wiggle free of his grasp to no avail; he hitched her arm higher up her back, cutlass coming up to her neck. He seemed unwilling to bring the blade against her throat and shifted so the back of his hand was tucked under her chin instead, cutlass pointing off over her left shoulder.

“ _You shouldn’t drop your shoulder like that_ ,” he said, holding the position. He was pressed flush against her back, breath ghosting across the top of her head.

“I didn’t even realize I did.”

“ _It was simple, forcing you into this position. I would demonstrate, but . . ._ ”

The position made her aware, once again, of just how much taller he was – something that had been easy to forget when he had been forced to sit or crouch in the hold. She could feel her heart beating a wild rhythm in her chest, and chanced a glance up at the helm only to be met with her father’s glare.

“I don’t think I could pull this one on you,” she said.

“ _Perhaps not with our relative heights taken into consideration_ ,” he agreed, releasing her and stepping away.

She felt somewhat vindicated by the sweat on his brow, glad that the exertion of fighting on such a hot day didn’t take its toll on her alone. She thought for a moment about going below and fetching them something cool to drink but couldn’t bring herself to make such an offer; the air between them crackled with tense anticipation, and she was loath to step away. From the way Félix’s eyes tracked her as she moved, she knew that she was not merely imagining things.

“Again?” she asked.

“ _Aren’t you growing tired of losing_?”

Her lips pulled into a wide smile – he was teasing her. “So sure you’ve got me beat, are you?”

“ _You admitted it yourself_ ,” he said, taking a step forward to crowd her.

He would trounce her again – she had no illusions about that – which was why she didn’t understand her own impulse to goad him. “Maybe I was just being generous.” She drew her rig knife as well.

He smirked, his voice dropping into its deepest register. “ _I’m looking forward to hearing you take that back_.” He didn’t draw a second weapon; she knew it for the challenge that it was.

“We’ll see.”

The addition of her rig knife proved more of a challenge for Félix, who couldn’t dodge within her range to take her cutlass as easily as he had before. Her dexterity with two-hand fighting kept him at bay for some time; she watched a sharp grin transform his features as he met the challenge she presented, adapting his stance and technique to exploit the areas she left unguarded.

 _This is exhilarating for him_ , she realized as he let out surprised laugh when she parried one of his precise strikes with her rig knife.  She answered with a fierce grin of her own. _Not just for him, perhaps_. Metal rang against metal as he came at her from a different angle, abandoning his earlier finesse and using his height to drive her backwards. She retreated to escape the sudden onslaught, weaving to avoid the mainsail ballantine and turn inboard.

Her mistake came when she glanced towards the midships housetop, a plan forming in her mind to make for higher ground. The distraction cost her, however; Félix snuck in under her guard, forcing her cutlass up and away from her body. She turned, realizing her error and trying to push him off with the threat of her rig knife. He anticipated such a move, catching her wrist before she could strike. Another step and she felt her shoulders thump against the mainmast, wrists pinned above her head. An experimental tug and she knew she had been beat; she was held in place by Félix’s body weight.

His face hung low over hers, smirk freezing on his face. She waited for the acerbic remark that was sure to come, but he remained silent, breath puffing from between too-close lips, words lost in his distraction. _Oh Gods_ , she thought, thankful that they were well out of the helm’s line of sight. She knew that they both felt the same distraction, was certain that she sported a furious blush to match the high color in Félix’s cheeks, knew that it didn’t come from exertion alone. They stood stock still for a long minute, Félix’s eyes finding and boring into hers. Gooseflesh broke out across her neck and arms. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat as his eyes dropped to her lips.

As her mind began to race and her heart beat double-time, a thought broke through the heavy fog. She slid a foot out, hooking her ankle behind his calves to force him a step forward. He stumbled into her, starting as her knee connected with his inner thigh. A few inches higher and it’d have hit him right below the belt. The threat was explicit.

A grin spread across his face, feral and real, followed by another bark of laughter. “ _You don’t admit defeat easily. Very good, my little warrior_.”

Coming from anyone else the diminutive might have caused insult, but from him – and in his mother tongue – she knew it for the endearment that it was. Her face flushed hot once more. “Little warrior?” she asked, voice no more than a croak.

He stepped back, releasing his grip on her wrists. “ _A slip of the tongue_.”

She followed him outboard, catching his arm before he turned away. “I like it.”

They were standing too close. She could feel the heat spilling off of him, was close enough to see the small cluster of freckles that gathered just over one of his collarbones. Fingertips grazed the inside of her wrist, nearly causing her to lose her grip on her rig knife. A wave of _want_ washed through her, interrupted only by the timely sound of her father calling her name.

She started, pulling away from Félix and moving back to the high side of the deck, sheathing her knife and cutlass. Her hands most certainly did not shake as she did so.

“Yeh, Da?” She squinted up at the helm. The light tread behind coming from midships informed her that Félix had followed her.

Callum watched both of them with pursed lips. “Everything alright down there?”

“What, aside from being walloped by a Belenese sailor, you mean?” she asked, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Just be careful, girl.”

“We’re finished anyway, Da – I’m going to go below for some coconut water. D’you want any?”

“We’ll take two mugs,” Arden interjected.

Ehrin regarded Félix over her shoulder. “One for you as well?”

“I would like that, yes,” he said.

“Good.” She was halfway down the companionway when she noticed that Félix wasn’t following her. “Not yer maid, Félix; after all the meals I’ve brought to you, I’d say it’s high time you help me carry something out of the galley.”

She resumed her progress below as soon as she heard the companionway ladder creak under his weight.

“Is this why the men call you the ‘Galley Tyrant’?” he asked, appearing in the doorway.

“Not you, too,” she said, dismayed.

“ _I’ll have a mug then, if you please, O Lady of the Galley_ —”

The wet dishtowel made a satisfying noise when it hit him in the face.

…

Félix scratched the large orange tabby behind the ears, presenting her with the small morsel of fish he had saved from his last meal. The cat gave a chirp of gratitude, vacating her post atop the desk to claim her treat. Félix brushed a few stray hairs off of the chart, tracing the line of the river with a finger and trying to recall details from his own (lost) charts by memory.

Tapping the chart he marked a spot with a finger, reaching for the quill that sat on the far end of Lord Arden’s desk. With a careful hand he annotated the chart, describing the danger with the odd symbol used by the Oceanic for such things. He made two more markings – one warning against the narrowing of the shipping channel around a river bend, the other identifying the location of a submerged boulder that had wrecked multiple ships in Félix’s memory.

He set the quill down, finding it difficult to concentrate on the chart while surrounded by books, dispatches, trinkets, and the multitude of other items that littered the Steward’s cabin. One of the books of the Eastern Scriptures sat open to the right of the chart; he made a pointed effort not to look at it. As he shifted his attention to the other side of the desk, his eyes caught on the familiar script inked into one of the bindings. Further inspection yielded a handful of books on the grammatical structure of the Madestan languages. Intrigued, Félix thumbed through one of the books on Belenese.

Although he had been awaiting Lord Arden’s entrance, the sound of the door opening still startled him. He was careful not to show it, and turned towards the door with a mask of careful neutrality on his face.

“Find any more gross inaccuracies on that chart?” Arden asked, leaning against the edge of the desk to look over Félix’s work.

“A few.”

Arden cocked his head, reaching out to tap a word written in flowing script that wasn’t his own. “Ashaia?”

“It is the name of the river. What do you call it?”

“We don’t have a name for it; I’m not sure any but Lyrian traders have ever attempted to traverse it,” Arden replied. “Even then, I don’t think many Lyrians have ventured past Belen.”

“The passage is difficult.”

“So we learned,” Arden sighed. “We’d have had a rough time of it if you hadn’t been on board.”

“You wouldn’t have attempted it if I was not on board.”

“Fair enough.” Arden leaned forward over the chart once more, squinting against the dim light. They had passed into the twilight hours between late afternoon and dusk, and little light filtered into the cabin. He flicked a finger in the direction of the lanterns that sat upon his desk; the candles within sparked to life.

Félix flinched, tamping down on the flare of _panic_ that threatened to overwhelm him at the sudden flash of fire. He forced a slow breath in through his nose. _I am not on the Madesta. This is not an attack against my crew. There will be no conflagration – not this time_. He looked up from the chart to see Lord Arden staring at him, brows knit together in confusion.

“Why did you—” he began, breaking off mid-sentence as he looked back and forth between Félix and the lanterns once more. Félix knew the Steward to be a perceptive man, and was not surprised to see him make such a quick connection.

“It is nothing,” Félix said. He kept his focus on the scrawled lines of the chart. The misplaced memory had passed.

“It was thoughtless of me. My apologies.”

“Hm.”

The grunt demonstrated precisely how he felt about discussing the death of his second officer; Lord Arden let it be, changing the subject with alacrity. “Have you thought much about how we’re going to broach this matter to your council?”

Félix’s eyes fell once more on the numerous Madestan texts the Steward had in his possession. “We will have to speak first with my brother. It is he who will be in charge of accepting the terms of my ransom.”

“Do you think there’s a chance he wouldn’t?”

Félix’s lips thinned. “It is possible, but unlikely – especially not if you take my advice on his nature into account.”

“I’ll admit that I’m somewhat worried he’ll order me run through on sight.”

“He is a warrior,” Félix reminded him. “He will take no joy from ordering the death of an unarmed man. He may wish to take you prisoner.”

“And he’ll have the manpower to be able to do it.”

“Yes. He will be standing in front of many, perhaps including my father. You must call upon his honor as a warrior. You must say that you have heard of his reputation, and that you had assumed that he would act honorably in wartime. This will include the ransom of captives, which is an Oceanic wartime practice.”

“So I’m trusting my life to an appeal to your brother’s sense of honor?” Arden snorted.

Félix narrowed his eyes. “Coming to Zaránd was your idea.”

“Yeh, but I had planned on keeping you aboard and giving you over to your brother’s hands only once _Windjammer_ ’s safety was assured,” Arden admitted.

“No. This you must not do. My brother will take it as a threat or a challenge.” Félix shook his head. “He will find a way to win. Do not forget how different things are amongst my people.”

“If I strike a handshake bargain with him, how do I guarantee the safety of my crew? What stops him from reneging on our deal as soon as he hears me speak before the council? He won’t be happy with what I have to say, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t he clap me in irons as soon as the first breath about a treaty leaves my lips?”

“Because this ‘handshake deal’, as you say, will be made in my House. Men of my House will have witnessed it. My brother cares not for you, perhaps, but he cares for his own honor and reputation. It is everything in Belen.”

“Reputation,” Arden snorted.

“You do not understand,” Félix stressed, meeting his eyes. “I would fall upon my own blade before I allowed my father to think me a liar.”

Arden took a moment to absorb this information. “I think I understand,” he said, words measured. “We’re playing off your mores, aren’t we? If he threatens me during negotiations I call his honor and bravery into question. If he threatens me afterward, I call him out for a liar in front of his people – or better yet, the other clans.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that so simple a thing would work.”

“I will say it again: we are different from you.”

Arden let out a sigh. “It’ll sink in one of these days.”

“Perhaps with all of that color, there is a problem with absorption.”

Arden pulled up short. “Wait. Did you just – did you just make a redhead joke?”

Félix bared his teeth in a grin. “I remarked on the color of your hair to your bo’sun. He told me it was uncommon, then shared some jokes with me.”

“Oh for Fángon’s sake,” Arden muttered, looking upward as though to appeal to the Gods themselves.

“There was a good one about carpet and window dressings—”

“I’m going to keelhaul him for this.”

“Then he was correct when he told me that the hair matches the temper?”

“Lars, you arse,” Arden sighed. “With that said, I believe we were discussing your brother—”

“Very well,” Félix said, stifling a smile. “What more do you wish to know?”

Though it was clear that Arden had changed the subject back to Olivier to stem the onslaught of jokes about his hair color, he soon recaptured their earlier thread of conversation. “What are the odds that you’ll be able to convince your brother to support our cause?”

Félix frowned. “He will not be happy when he hears your opening words.”

“And yours?”

“He cannot know that I will argue for you during the debate. He would prevent me from speaking if he did.” Félix dropped his gaze back to the charts, stone-faced. “My words in council will make Belen look foolish in front of the other clans. They will not believe when I tell them what I have seen.”

“Not even Olivier?”

“ _He knows that I have no interest in lying to the council for the sake of politics, but he may suspect that I have been compromised during my imprisonment._ ”

“Will harm come to you then?”

“That will depend on what the council demands. I do not think he would have me hung if the others did not demand it,” Félix replied. “I have told you, he has settled some over the years.”

“You suspect that the other councilmembers will be equally unsupportive of the treaty,” Arden surmised.

“Yes.”

“Then they will march out and see with their own eyes, just as you did. Do you think they’ll turn our way when they do?” Arden asked.

“I do not know.” He hesitated “ _I have a confession to make_.”

“Go right ahead.”

“ _You know that I have spoken with the demon in the recent past, do you not_?”

“Ehrin had told me as much, though she left out the details,” Arden replied.

“ _Zathár must have realized that I was questioning my loyalty to him. It didn’t take much for his promises to turn to threats. He showed me a vision of a burning city. In the vision it was my own, but – I suspect that the town we passed may have been both warning and punishment_.”

“Carrot and stick,” Arden muttered. “I assume you’ve blocked him out of your thoughts?”

“ _For some time, now_.”

“Good.” Félix could hear the hesitation in the Steward’s tone, and knew that the man didn’t yet find him trustworthy. He supposed that was to be expected.

“ _I’m not sure whether I would have reacted the same way to the encounter with the coastal town if it had occurred before my capture_ ,” he continued. “ _You and the Regent have given me information and insight that my countrymen will not possess. When – if – they stumble upon that village on the march to Anaphe, it may renew their belief that Zathár is best treated as an ally rather than an enemy_.”

“I hadn’t thought the Madestan people would willingly submit to such treatment,” Arden said. “It’s so similar to how Dramor has treated the clans – governance through fear. Don’t they see that?”

“ _They’re blinded by the promise of freedom_ ,” Félix murmured. “ _It is my fault that they are_.”

“Then hopefully you can convince them to think otherwise – that Oceana has every intention of delivering upon the same promise,” Arden stressed.

“ _They will find that difficult to believe_.”

“I know that. Why do you think I have all of these?” He gestured to the stack of books on Madestan customs. “I’m trying to let your people know that my King takes this alliance very seriously. I hope that between the two of us, we can make a persuasive argument. We cannot let them fight on in Zathár’s name, Commodore. To do so would bring ruin upon Anaphe.”

Félix’s Oceanic was by no means perfect, but even he heard the unnatural strain in the Steward’s voice at those words. “ _You’re worried that the city will fall in your absence_.”

“Yes.”

“The Regent is there,” Félix stated.

“As are my nieces and several close friends.”

“Then I hope it does not come to pass.”

Arden was surprised by his statement. “Thank you. Without your help my chances for defending Anaphe would be immeasurably smaller.”

Félix gave a stiff nod. “ _Rest assured I’ll prepare before I speak. I’m told I can be very persuasive._ ” His eyes fell on the stack of books once more.

“I don’t doubt that.” Arden’s eyes followed his. “Is there something you wanted to borrow? I’m sure you know what’s in most of those better than I, but perhaps . . .” he shuffled through the stack before holding up a dictionary that compared the different Madestan dialects and offered translations into Oceanic.

Félix hesitated. “You need it, do you not?”

Arden rolled his eyes. “So do you, for all that you lapse into Belenese whenever you say anything meaningful. Take it; if I need to reference it I’ll come find you.”

“Very well.”

The muted toll of the ship’s bell marked the change of watch. “Go on,” Arden said, “I know you think you’ve been subtle by appearing on deck each time our undermanned watch team is up and about, but you’re not fooling anyone.”

Félix raised a brow, but didn’t comment. “Good evening.”

He left the Steward’s cabin with every intention of dropping the book off and making for the quarterdeck. Lingering in the periphery would allow him to catch the briefing that happened during the change of watch, as had become his habit over the past several days. His path through the salon took him directly past the galley, however, where Ehrin was putting the final touches on the evening meal. As soon as she saw him approach she waved him over.

“I was wondering where you’d gone off to,” she confessed. “Come here, I’m trying a new recipe and want to know what you think.”

“It smells good,” he said, ducking under the ingredient-laden partition between the galley and companionway to enter the small space. He shuffled a cutting board down the countertop before hopping up to sit, long legs dangling down so his heels thumped against the cabinets in time with _Windjammer_ ’s sway.

She cast a glance at him over her shoulder, rolling her eyes when she saw his perch. “I slice vegetables on that countertop, I’ll have you know – and while the boys appreciate authentic Western spices more than I thought they would, ‘arse of Commodore’ might be taking it a little far.”

He raised a brow, but refrained from commenting.

Ehrin stepped into the space between his knees. He expected her to hand the spoon of steaming stew over to him, and was surprised when she raised it up to his lips. The intimacy of the gesture both pleased and unnerved him. He focused his eyes on the spoon, blowing gently before having his taste. He heard himself let out a noise of satisfaction; the cream and spice was well-balanced, and reminded him of the flavors of Belenese cooking.

“Good?” she asked.

“Very.”

She didn’t move away, electing instead to try the soup for herself. As soon as the spoon came in contact with her mouth she let out a hiss of pain, nearly spilling the soup down the front of her shirt; the split in her lower lip was still tender. Félix’s fingers wrapped around hers to steady them. A wave of anger rose within him at the thought that one of those creatures had so marred her face, temporary though the injury may be.

“Damn,” she muttered, eyes darting up to meet his. He found himself reaching for her, fingers curling beneath her jaw, thumb dragging across the seam of her lips as though his touch could soothe the sting.

“You are alright?” he asked, the pad of his thumb coming to rest at the corner of her mouth. He felt her swallow against his fingertips.

“Yeh. I keep forgetting about it, is all,” she replied, voice no more than a whisper.

He forced himself to look away, dropping both of his hands. The pull of attraction was dangerous; it was foolish beyond measure to let it so control his behavior. He forced some levity into his voice as he spoke. “This is why you must practice your swordsmanship.”

She let out an undignified snort, a small smile pulling at her lips as she stepped back towards the stove. “Are you offering?”

“Any time it pleases you,” he replied, belatedly aware that his words did nothing to ease the tension between them.

“Well.” It was more a huff of breath than a word.

Above them the creak of the deck alerted Félix to the tread of booted feet; no doubt the deckhands were already being briefed. Eager to escape the magnetic pull he felt towards the Captain’s daughter, Félix slid from his perch on the countertop, leaving his book behind to claim along with his evening meal at a later hour.

“I must be on deck.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him as she stirred. “Change of watch, is it? You can take the Commodore out of the navy . . .” she mused, a wry tilt to her lips. “I’ll see you later, then. The stew will be ready soon enough; I’ll call up when it is.”

“Until then,” he murmured, making his escape.

It was growing dark by the time Félix reached the deck. His eyes roved over the coastline, trying to place their location. Still several days out of Zaránd, they were using the strength of the wind to fight the current. This far inland, ships with _Windjammer_ ’s rig were uncommon; the schooner’s slow progress upriver demonstrated the river’s strength.

He proceeded back towards the helm where Callum had just finished briefing the new watch team. The Ithakan cast him a baleful glance before brushing past him on the way to the bow. The fiddler – Jonah – hesitated before following his fellow deckhand. The Captain heaved a sigh, adjusting course and favoring Félix with a frown.

“You’re putting my crew on edge, you know.”

Félix nodded, conceding the point. At first he had attempted to remain unobtrusive, but he was a sailor, and these were his waters; he found it impossible to remain below for extended periods of time. “I will do no harm to this vessel. They know this.”

“Takes a long time before a man will trust another with his vessel, Commodore – that shouldn’t come as a surprise to you.”

“I will not remain below.” It was an insolent thing to say, standing on the quarterdeck next to the Captain of a ship he had once tried to sink. Tact, however, had always been one of Félix’s shortcomings.

Callum leveled a cool stare at him. “You may be a Commodore in your own right, but there’s only one Captain on this vessel. It’d do you well to remember that.”

“Hm.”

“My crew and I don’t need your help,” Callum continued.

“Hm,” Félix grunted again. It wasn’t an explicit contradiction, but he knew the Captain took his meaning. _Windjammer_ didn’t _need_ him, perhaps – but he had made his value as a sailor and navigator known multiple times over since they had set out from Anaphe.

Félix knew that the Captain was quietly stewing during the silence that fell following their words. He watched the opposite bank of the river approach, moving into position when it came time to gybe. Although Ashaia was a wide river by Madestan standards, course changes were frequent as they wound their way northward. If _Windjammer_ ’s deckhands resented how well he knew and handled their ship they said nothing. The gybe was completed without incident, and _Windjammer_ began her journey back towards the other river bank.

Ahead of them a string of low-lying lantern lights emerged from around the river bend, gliding gracefully across the water. He recognized the pattern of lights immediately and moved back to the helm where he used the compass to calculate their course. Once there he noted that the Captain’s eyes were trained on the same spot.

“Arrindurian trade vessel,” he said.

Callum glanced back at him, brows drawn down. “Will they give us any trouble?”

“They are not on course to intercept us. In the dark they will assume we are a Belenese or Januzian vessel.”

Callum studied the approaching ship for another long moment. “How are they moving so fast? I know they’re headed downriver, but that’s right into the eye of the wind.”

Félix rested an elbow on the binnacle. “They have a sail, but they are not using it. The crew will row when the wind is not favorable.”

The vessel had turned to pass them to port. Callum watched as the lights drew nearer, illuminating more of its shape and structure. “Is that one of those double-headed boats? I’ve seen pictures of them.”

“Yes. It does not have a bow or stern as we think of it.”

“Two figureheads as well, it looks like. Why’s that?”

“They say it warns them of danger approaching from any side,” Félix said. He frowned, wishing that Ehrin or Lord Arden were there to help him with the translation. There was far more to say about Arrindurian shipbuilding practices, but he lacked the right words in Oceanic.

“They’ve got a clinker hull on it as well, don’t they?” Callum asked.

“Where the boards of the hull overlap? Yes.”

Callum was quiet for a moment, watching the boat as it passed. “It’s a clever design. Suits their needs well, I’d reckon.”

Félix was pleased by the open admiration in the Captain’s tone. “The Madestan people have adapted to life on the river.”

“Seems you come from a thoughtful people.”

Félix knew this for the peace offering it was, and was surprised by the Captain’s words. They had all found it difficult to lay their grudges aside in order to do the right thing, but it seemed that the Captain was willing to follow his Steward’s example and rise above the standoff that had marked Félix’s relationship with _Windjammer_ ’s crew since the departure from Anaphe. Félix found himself honoring the gesture by refraining from a customary biting retort.

“Yes,” he said. “My people are a good people.”

Callum watched him out of the corner of an eye. “Most people are, I s’pose.” He returned his attention to the vessel off their port beam. “Tell me more about Arrindur, Commodore.”

Félix complied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Zombies. (Kind of.) Not like you didn't know it was coming, but here they are.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm back.
> 
> The story is, I work abroad and away from the land of the internets all summer. It means that this story (along with the rest of my life) goes on hiatus for approximately 2.5 months each year. The plan *was* to finish this chapter in late May / early June and inform readers (of which there are several of you and it's awesome and HI) that I wasn't abandoning this story. That clearly didn't work out as planned, so now here we are in August and I'm finally getting this thing off of my hard drive and out into the world. In other words:
> 
> 1\. Hello and THANK YOU to everyone who has left comments on 'Western Wave' and 'A Flash' over the past few months: I know I got replies out to a few of you, but wanted to reiterate how important and inspiring your feedback has been. I'll finish this story no matter what -- it's more or less a personal mission at this point -- but it's *so* nice to know I'm not typing into the void. Also the feedback has been overwhelmingly positive, which is incredible: your words always make my day.
> 
> 2\. This chapter is not as well edited as I'd like. I just . . . cannot possibly look at it anymore, and need to make it go away so I can keep on keeping on.
> 
> [2/26/2015: I've edited it. It's still not as edited as I'd like.]  
> [Probably never will be.]  
> [Ugh.]
> 
> So. Here it is.

_The Season of Renewal  
Illád the 3; 2422_

Imran never thought he would miss the obsequious fawning that had punctuated his last stay in Armathia. Experience had proved otherwise, however; even duplicitous flattery was easier on his nerves than the open contempt shown by most Anapheans. While he was accustomed to such displays after so many years on Oceanic soil, Anaphean citizens took xenophobia to an extreme; since his Dramorian origins were obvious, this made it difficult for him to do his job.

“This is the physician’s ward,” an assistant repeated for the third time in as many minutes.

Imran arched a brow. “Yes, I had noticed.”

“If you have no business here—”

“My commander is here, and therefore, so am I. I will remain until I am needed elsewhere.”

They physician’s assistant ground his teeth. “You are disturbing our patients.”

“I was standing in silence until you approached. How do I disturb them?”

“You are . . .” the assistant trailed off, making a vague gesture in his direction.

“The Regent’s Lieutenant? Pardoned by the King? A citizen of Oceana?” Imran drawled.

“You are _Dramorian_ ,” he assistant hissed.

Imran scowled. He hated Anaphe.

Across the room, Valory turned from his patient to join their conversation. “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

“This man finds me too Dramorian for his tastes, my Lord,” he replied.

“You don’t need to be here, you know.”

Imran withstood the impulse to laugh. “I respectfully disagree, my Lord.”

Valory sighed, turning his attention back to his patient. Beside him the physician moved into place to better observe his progress. “If you insist, Imran.”

Imran smirked at the assistant before moving back into parade rest, watching Valory as he continued his work. He would have volunteered for this shift even if Little and Gabriel hadn’t been occupied; although enchantments still unsettled him, there was something fascinating about watching Valory practice his Healing talent – not that Imran would ever admit that out loud, of course.

Valory set his hands over the bandage wrapping the patient’s knee, brow drawing down with concentration. His eyes screwed shut as he worked, little twitches and tells in his fingers and facial features letting Imran know that something was happening beneath the linen bandage.

“Good,” the physician said, though Imran wasn’t sure what Valory had accomplished.

“The blood won’t start seeping from the wound later, then?” Valory asked.

“You sped up and strengthened one of the body’s natural processes. It will be as if the wound clotted itself; possible to reopen, but strong nonetheless,” the physician replied.

Imran was distracted from his musings on Valory’s abilities when he heard the light tread of feet approaching the physician’s chambers. He was surprised and pleased to see that the new arrival posed no threat; the viceroy smiled at him as she passed into the room. He was alarmed to note that she had arrived without an escort, however, and resolved to speak with the Captain on the matter at a later time.

“Lady Fiona, what brings you here?” From Valory’s tone, Imran could tell that he was not alone in being perturbed by her appearance.

“I was hoping for a tincture for my headache,” she said, cocking her head as she regarded the Regent. “You’re upset that I came alone.”

“I am. Judging by that statement and the recurrence of your headache, I’d hazard a guess that your talent is growing stronger.”

“It is. I was making an attempt at paperwork before I came, but found it nigh on impossible. I hadn’t wanted to interrupt anyone’s duties for so small a thing.”

Valory frowned. “Your safety is of the utmost importance.”

After a long look in his direction, she seemed to realize that he would not be swayed on the matter. “I’ll take better care in the future, my Lord.”

“See that you do.” He turned, scanning the shelf behind him for the proper bottle. The physician beat him to it, plucking up a bottle filled with a pale green liquid.

“Here you are, my Lady. I’d offer my services but I know you’ve been avoiding other signatures like the Indarian plague,” he said.

“Thank you.” She tucked the bottle into her robes.

“Anything else you need, my Lady?”

“No, that’s all. Hopefully I can get on with my work, now.” She appeared far from excited at the prospect.

Valory turned to Imran. “Lieutenant, you’ll escort Lady Fiona back to her quarters.”

Imran had half a mind to protest – he had little desire to leave the Regent unguarded – but knew that Valory was right, and the viceroy was more in need of his protection. “Yes, sir.”

Fiona must have had similar thoughts, for she leveled him with a resigned half-smile. “Shall we, Lieutenant? As much as I’d rather dawdle, I suppose those requisition forms won’t sign themselves.”

Imran fell into step at her shoulder, fighting the unease he felt in her presence. Gabe had told him that her talent was impressive. He found telepathic enchantments to be the most unsettling of them all, and cursed his inability to properly guard his thoughts. After a few furious moments of trying to control his inner monologue, he noticed the sly smile that began to spread across her face.

“You make it awfully hard not to peek, you know,” she said. “Gabe was right – it seems like any attempt at guarding your thoughts only makes you think them louder.”

Imran scowled. “You can hear them?”

“The odd word – not the way Gabe can. Not yet, at least,” she amended. “Mostly I feel your frustration and . . . fear? You need not feel so. I know that’s a silly thing to say, but – I’d not dishonor you by repeating any of this to another.”

Imran grunted. “Thank you my Lady, but that is not why I am uncomfortable. I am a man of the desert. I will never be used to such things.”

“Arrar,” she murmured, and he knew that she had pulled the thought out of his head. “You have his Blessing, but not Illen’s.” She shrugged. “I suppose I find it strange that I’ve never seen you break a sweat; you’re always so cool and unaffected. As such it seems that you’re not the only one who marvels at the Blessings of others.”

“It is not the same.”

She watched him for another long moment, during which he tried not to fidget under the scrutiny. “I suppose not,” she agreed. Her eyes fell to the carved idol that hung over his tunic, Niko’s gift to him before the battle for Ithaka. “Do you still worship him?”

“Yes. He has given me much.”

“I confess I know little of your God,” she admitted. “For many years I thought that he was the source of the conflict between Dramor and Oceana.”

“Not Arrar. His true worshippers are not violent. It is politics that makes them act otherwise. Then there are the followers of Zathár. It is they who have risen to power.”

“And what of Arrar’s worshippers?” she asked.

“They are not as devout or numerous as they once were – not in Indar, at least. Not where it matters.”

“Why not in the cities?”

“They do not live and die by his hand. In the desert of Dramor the villages follow the rivers. Many run beneath the ground. The sun gives life to the ground above the river, and if one strays too far without provisions, the sun takes life away. Men of the city are quick to forget that they once lived and died by the sun’s hand. They forget that we survive the most desolate stretches of our land because of Arrar’s gift.”

“They are ungrateful, you mean,” she said.

“Yes. They do not wonder where their grain comes from, or how the farmer who tends it could not survive without Arrar.”

“Don’t Dramorians consider Arrar responsible for the afterlife? How can men of the city worship Zathár in his stead?”

“The legends you speak of are ancient. Arrar is far older than the Gods of Oceana; his story was carved into stone ages before Illen and Fángon came to be. He has always taken the souls of the faithful from their bodies on the night of their passing.”

“Where do they go?” she asked.

“To live in the sky with Arrar. They are not so bright, perhaps, but they are there.”

“They are in the stars, then?”

“Yes. Arrar’s children believe that the stars hold the souls of our ancestors.”

“I don’t understand – why would anyone turn to Zathár instead?”

Imran’s lips thinned. “Some think it is not enough. They think that Arrar’s way is old, and believe in Zathár’s promises for eternal life.”

“You think them greedy for it,” she observed.

“And arrogant, to believe that any man can be worthy of such a thing. Then they reach out to convince the others that it is their birth right.”

“That’s why you left.”

“Such behavior disgusted me,” he said, turning the corner and nearly running into Captain Malcolm.

“There you are,” Malcolm said, letting out an audible sigh of relief. “You can’t disappear like that, Fi—my Lady. With things as they are, I thought the worst.” He turned to Imran. “Apologies for almost bowling you over, Lieutenant.”

“Unnecessary,” he replied. As soon as he spoke he realized he might not have bothered; the Captain and the viceroy were focused exclusively on one another.

“It was only the physician’s chambers. I hardly thought it worth bothering you over,” she said.

“You know that no such thing would be a bother to me. Please, my Lady – you mustn’t forget that an attempt was made upon your life only a short while ago.”

“Captain, I—”

Imran rolled his eyes. The two of them were painfully obvious around one another. _Young love_. “I’ll take my leave, then,” he said, startling them both: they had forgotten he was even there.

At the viceroy’s nod Imran spun on his heel, retracing his steps back towards the physician’s rooms. His thoughts wandered as he walked, straying back to the Captain and viceroy’s mutual regard. One needn’t have an Empathetic enchantment to see that Malcolm guarded his Lady’s safety out of more than just professional obligation. _They are being foolish. Duty will only separate them._ Even as the thoughts crossed his mind, his hand strayed into his trouser pocket. Fingertips slid over the smooth surface of a shell, pads feeling the texture of the patterned paint scrolled over its edges.

In his distraction he was unaware of the other occupant of the hall until he was hailed. His head snapped up at the sound of his name. Gabriel met him halfway with a wave.

“Happy day.” Imran was rewarded with a smile as soon as the words left his mouth. “May you have health and strength in this new year.”

Gabriel’s smile broadened at the traditional – albeit translated – Dramorian words. “Thank you Imran; it has been a good day so far. Did you know that Val had a feast fit for a King brought to our quarters this morning? I would you had been there to sample it.”

“I was on duty. Val gave the order a few days past. He forgets little.”

“It was a kind thought of his,” Gabe said. “He had some midland treats brought in with all of it – it reminded me of home.”

“You are going to town now?” Imran asked.

“Little and I were going with some of Malcolm’s lads. You’ll come join me when Little relieves you, right?”

“It is your day. I will not miss it.” He spoke no more than the truth: although Anaphe had him overworking himself, getting the barest snatches of sleep each night, he couldn’t imagine denying his friend companionship on the anniversary of his birth. He may never be truly considered Oceanic, but amongst his men he was always home.

“Great,” Gabriel beamed. “I’ll see you at sundown then, eh?”

“At sundown,” Imran promised as the hallway split and they went their separate ways.

Anaphean tavern though it may be, he was looking forward to getting away from the city proper for the evening. For all the trouble he’d been through the past few weeks, a mug of Lyrian ale sounded like just the thing.

He heard the din before reentering the physician’s chambers. Valory was bent over a different patient this time, and from the terse instructions the physician was issuing, Imran surmised that the man’s wound – whatever it was – had recently reopened.

“Dressings!” the physician ordered. No soon had the words left his mouth than a swath of linen bandages slipped from their shelf, speeding across the room of their own accord to meet Valory’s outstretched hand. The physician’s next order was suspended mid-sentence at the casual display of telekinetic power. The assistant, who had been in the process of scurrying to grab the dressings, noticed Imran on the way to the shelf and took the opportunity to continue his earlier argument.

“I don’t suppose a desert-dweller like you could appreciate such a demonstration of Illen’s favor.”

 _One mug of Lyrian ale? Make that two. Or three._ Imran rolled his eyes. “As you like.”

“Dramorian spy,” the assistant hissed. He clearly wouldn’t run out of invectives for some time.

_Or six._

…

Fiona winced as she took her seat, rubbing at a temple and casting a sidelong glance at the Regent. He eyed her with some concern, fingertips tapping at the edge of the desk. Despite the increasing severity of her developing enchantment, she had refused his offers of help; the first time he had tried to take the edge off of the pain the ache in her teeth from his signature had been unsupportable. Of late even the physician’s tinctures no longer had any effect. As such, she was resigned to gritting her teeth and bearing the press of enchantments that swirled around her own.

Gabriel had told her that some of her difficulties came from being in Anaphe, a place where many were not adept at shielding their thoughts. He worried for her health, and had noticed the difficulty she had concentrating. Privately Fiona thought that the diluted enchantments of Anapheans had little to do with her troubles; she was starting to pick up on even the heavily-guarded thoughts and impressions of men like Valory and Jarmon. She didn’t feel comfortable broaching the subject with either of them until she was certain that her assessment of her talent was accurate. She knew that this was what her uncle had done when he developed his second enchantment, and felt some modicum of comfort knowing that she was following in his footsteps.

“Lady Fiona?”

Fiona looked up to meet the Regent’s shrewd stare. “I beg your pardon, my Lord – I’m afraid I was lost in contemplation.”

“Do you have any other business to attend to before we admit Captain Malcolm’s men?” he asked. She could feel his _irritation, worry, anticipation_ pressing at her thoughts and forced a smile.

“No my Lord.”

“Very well. Captain, let’s hear their tidings.”

The soldiers who had been standing at the back of the hall proceeded to the front of the room to give their testimony. Fiona noted that they were still outfitted for travel, worn vestments indicating that they hadn’t taken the time to freshen up before asking for their audience. As they drew closer, she could feel the distorted thrum of their thoughts, almost as though she was listening to them think with her head underwater. Their approach only intensified the silent speculation of the council. She rubbed her temples once more in an effort to ward away the physical discomfort caused by the assault to her senses.

The two soldiers – an officer and his aide – paid their respects to Regent and viceroy before beginning their report.

“Forgive our appearance my Lord, my Lady. We have news that could not wait,” the officer said.

“Inconsequential. You may begin,” Valory replied. Fiona could tell that the officer found Valory’s brusque tone comforting – she knew that he had worried over his performance of political niceties, and had been relieved to learn that he would be talking to a military commander in place of a council representative.

“There is not much to tell, my Lord Regent. My company is stationed at the foothills of the Western Mountains. When we learned of the nature of the threat upon our borders we sent scouts west to look for signs of an advancing army. They reported back a week past.”

Fiona winced against the onslaught of thought and feeling that battered her mind in response to the officer’s words. She refrained from clutching at her head, shutting her eyes and trying to visualize a mental barrier between herself and the others in the room as Gabriel had taught her. She was partially successful.

“Did your scout get a good look at the enemy?” Valory asked.

“He said that there were Dramorians and Westernese among them, my Lord, and that there were many. They numbered in the thousands.”

A ripple of dismay passed through the council at that.

“I assume they are not moving very quickly, if they intend to bring such a number through the mountain pass,” Valory surmised.

“You are correct, my Lord. We estimate it will take them a week to cross the range, and two more to reach the city walls.”

“Three weeks,” Valory said, mouth twisting.

“Yes, my Lord. Forgive me for bearing bad news.”

Valory shook his head. “You did your duty to the utmost, soldier; I’m sure Captain Malcolm will agree that you and your men have earned a commendation for it.”

“Indeed, my Lord,” Malcolm echoed.

“You have journeyed far in a short span of time; I doubt you have had time for rest and nourishment. If there’s nothing else you wish to share, you may return to your quarters.”

The officer hesitated, exchanging a look with his subordinate. Fiona could feel the _hesitation, fear, doubt_ passing between them. “There is one thing, my Lord.”

“Continue.”

The aide spoke up this time. “The scout, my Lord, is a good friend of mine. The night before we departed for Anaphe he shared something with me that did not make it into his official report. He said—” The aide broke off, waiting for his superior’s encouraging nod before continuing. “He said that he had spent a few hours observing the troops, trying to estimate their number and strength. As he watched them, he started to feel as though there was something . . . off about them, my Lord.”

“Off, how?” Valory asked.

“It was only some of the squadrons, he said. Most were in uniform, but these were not. Their gait was different, unlike anything he’d seen before. At first he thought maybe it was one of the tribes to the far West, but after watching them for some time figured that couldn’t be it. As they drew nearer he realized what had unsettled him so; he couldn’t see the whites of their eyes,” the aide continued.

“I’m not sure I see what you’re getting at.”

“My Lord, he waited for long enough that some of them passed very near. He—” The aide swallowed nervously. “He said that their eyes were empty.”

“The mark of the locker,” Fiona murmured, hearing the words ring in her head. The aide’s head snapped up to regard her, surprised to hear his inner thoughts voiced aloud.

Valory ground his teeth. “Why was this not in the official report?”

“He feared he would be accused of telling tales, my Lord. He could scarcely believe it himself. It was only after returning to Anaphe and hearing the news that my commander and I realized that there could be something to it.”

“Very well. If there is aught else, soldier . . .”

“No, my Lord,” the officer replied. “That’s all the news we have for you.”

“In that case, you are free to make for the garrison.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” the officer said, his aide echoing his words. They saluted the Regent before turning to exit the chamber.

Once the doors swung shut behind them, councilors began to vocalize the press of panicked thought that Fiona had felt coursing through the chamber throughout the audience. Jarmon silenced those who spoke out of turn with a raised hand.

“We have our timeline, gentlemen. This is what many of you have asked for ever since we first began to plan for a siege.”

“It is not as long as I had hoped. The harvests were poor this year, what with the draught. I fear for our ability to properly stock our stores,” Lord Arick spoke up. “Particularly if the surrounding settlements seek to take refuge behind city walls.”

“We have neither the space nor the resources to absorb the surrounding settlements,” Valory frowned.

“If we deny them admittance to the lower levels, they will be massacred. You heard what the soldiers said, what kind of army we can expect to lay siege upon our city. They will not be in the habit of granting quarter – not even to civilians,” Malcom said.

“But where will we put them?” Arick pressed. “How will we feed them?”

“We will have to make do,” Malcolm said. “We cannot leave our countrymen to the ravages of Zathár’s minions – Dramorian or otherwise.”

“The city’s occupants will suffer for it,” Arick argued.

“What does it matter, with a force such as the one described marching upon the city?” Fiona recognized Samir’s voice immediately.

“I’m sure the council could do without such pessimism, Lord Samir,” Jarmon said.

“He’s not wrong,” Valory admitted. “The city will collapse under its own weight if we cannot muster the resources to feed and protect them, yet I cannot imagine locking the gates against our own countrymen.”

“Then we evacuate the low-lying lands surrounding Anaphe,” Fiona said, drawing the attention of all councilmembers. Their combined surprise slammed into her. She held back a wince.

“Where do you propose we send the evacuees, my Lady?” Samir asked. She could feel his hostility, a dark weight on her shoulders.

“Anyone willing and able to fight will stay behind, of course, but the rest will head northward along the coast. They can make for Armathia.”

Valory shook his head. “The coast will be exposed. There is no reason to expect that they won’t be pursued.”

“I don’t see any more favorable options. We must begin the evacuation of those who cannot fight as soon as possible, else they – innocent victims, all – will fall at the hands of Zathár’s armies. They are my people. They are under my protection. I will not permit such a thing to come to pass,” she said, belatedly realizing that she had spoken in direct opposition to the Regent – and in front of an audience, no less. She bit her lip, waiting for the fury that didn’t come. As Valory opened his mouth to speak, she felt an overwhelming sense of _pleasure, interest, respect_ swell within her.

“My Lady—” one of the councilors began, but Valory cut him off with a wave of a hand.

“You make a compelling case, Lady Fiona, but have you considered the practicalities of such an effort?” he asked.

Fiona swallowed, mind working furiously past her surprise. She couldn’t believe that the Regent hadn’t lashed out following her open contradiction of his statements, and didn’t hesitate to press her advantage. “The evacuation would have to begin immediately, for them to have any hope of staying ahead of a marching army. Even supposing we repel the invaders, there’s a strong likelihood they will be deflected northward. You were right to suppose, my Lord, that our people might be pursued. I fear for that as well.” She took a breath. “Yet an evacuation of Anaphe’s lowlands will serve the secondary purpose of preparing coastal towns for the threat to come. What’s more, we have no expectation of an attack from the sea, and the season is ideal for coastal travel. They will find safety in Armathia, at least temporarily. The capital is the only city that could support them. There is nowhere to go but northward.”

“It will put a great strain on the capital’s resources,” Valory said.

“I cannot think of a better alternative, my Lord.” She looked up, meeting his eyes. His stare – one she had often felt the weight of – held a newfound spark of esteem that she hadn’t seen before.

“You make a persuasive point,” he said.

“That was my intention.” She was startled by her own cheek.

A smile flitted across Valory’s features, so brief that, were it not for her enchantment, she was certain she would have missed it. “You sound like my Steward, Lady Fiona. It shouldn’t surprise me so much, as he _is_ your uncle.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” She knew he had meant it as the highest compliment.

“Is that our plan then, my Lord? Are we to evacuate?” Jarmon asked.

“They will have to go unprotected,” Malcolm said. “We cannot spare any more men.”

“Distance from the battlefield is all the protection we can give them,” Valory agreed. “We’ll send first those who cannot fight – women, children, the infirm, the elderly – and worry about the rest once the first wave has departed.”

“The rest, my Lord?” Arick asked.

“Over the past few weeks I have encouraged the council to plan for all possible scenarios. I intend to continue on as such even though we know when the attack will come. We do not yet have sight of any reinforcements.”

Arick frowned. “The stores in the granary—”

“Are not what we might wish,” Valory completed, “but that is not my chief concern.”

“My Lord is worried that the city may prove indefensible,” Jarmon surmised.

Valory gave a solemn nod. “If it comes to it, we may find ourselves forced to evacuate parts of the city proper as well. There are many citizens here who cannot fight.”

“Many members of the court fit such a description, my Lord,” Samir spoke up.

“Would you send your own council away?” Arick asked.

“No. Not immediately, at least,” Valory said. “Not at all, if the city holds. But there are others who I would not expose to the danger.”

“My sisters,” Fiona said. “I would send them to Armathia if I could.”

“Just so. I’m sure many of those gathered have family who would be better off heading northward.”

“Are you asking us to send our daughters northward as part of a caravan, my Lord?” another councilor asked, eyebrows nearly at his hairline.

“They could go by sea,” Fiona offered. “There is less chance they would be pursued.”

“The witches may be silent of late, but the creatures are out. I saw them myself, during my journey,” Valory frowned.

“I would rather face a chance at creatures than the certainty of Zathár’s armies.”

“It is a better chance at escape, my Lord, should the Admiral agree to it,” Malcolm offered.

“The more we send by sea, the better our chances of holding out until help arrives,” Arick added. As he spoke, his face clouded over. “I hate to even speak the words, my Lord, but if the worst should come to pass . . . the sea would be our only route of escape. Even if we send some vessels in the coming weeks, enough must remain behind to take those who remain behind.”

“I hate to nurture so pessimistic a mindset,” Valory said.

“You must have a means of escape, my Lord,” Fiona said, voice sounding soft even to her own ears. “The Regent cannot risk exposure to Zathár’s armies.”

In the distance bells tolled, marking the advanced hour. Fiona felt Valory’s surprise course through her: they had both been so engaged in the day’s proceedings that they hadn’t noticed the passage of time. He pursed his lips, weighing his options. “We will continue this discussion tomorrow,” he finally said, “as there are many details that merit consideration. In the meantime, consider the immediate evacuation of the lowlands begun. Captain Malcolm, have your men with work with Lord Arick to arrange this.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“You will also speak to the Admiral regarding the standing navy’s resources and determine how many of the city’s citizens can be transported on Anaphean vessels.”

“Consider it done, my Lord.”

Valory turned to Fiona, a miniscule nod her cue to speak.

“Council is adjourned for the evening; we will meet again at nine bells tomorrow,” she said, tapping her staff on the ground.

As the councilors began to shuffle throughout the room, breaking off into groups and talking amongst themselves, Valory leaned over in her direction. “Meet with me after tonight’s meal. There is much to plan for.”

“Of course, my Lord,” she said, wondering for a moment whether her reprimand for backtalk had merely been delayed until Valory spoke again, putting her fears to rest.

“Good work today.” He stood, gathering his paperwork. “Until later, Lady Fiona.”

“My Lord,” she managed, a smile breaking out across her face. The compliment thrilled her; enough so that the headache almost ceased to matter.

Malcolm appeared at her elbow, arm outstretched. “My Lady, should you wish to return to your quarters before the evening meal, I am at your service.”

“That sounds like just the thing, Captain. Thank you.”

Slipping her arm through his, she focused on the pleasant warmth of his signature as they forged through the crowd of councilors. He ushered her with practiced ease, ensuring that their pace appeared casual while moving with enough haste to prevent any councilors from engaging her in debate. Once in the hall the walk to her chambers was swift; with a salute to the pair of guards at the door they made their way safely inside.

Fiona slid onto her settee with a sigh, giving into the temptation to massage at her temples as Malcolm went through his daily ritual of clearing all of her rooms of potential dangers. While she often felt the urge to poke fun at him for it, today she could feel the rush of _dutiful protectiveness_ that drove his actions.

He returned to the sitting room with an easy, relaxed set to his shoulders. “Some council today,” he remarked, taking his habitual seat next to her.

She leaned into him, letting out a contented sigh when his arm came to rest around her. “Three weeks.”

“Not as long as we had hoped, yet also not as soon as we had feared.”

“I hope we made the right call today.”

“With the evacuation?” he asked. “I would say so. It’s the best chance we have, as you argued. You did brilliant work in there.”

He was proud of her; she could feel it rippling through every word he spoke. “I hope so. I was worried for a moment, when I spoke up against the Regent. I thought he might take offense.”

“Yet you meant none, and it seems he knew that. You made a well-thought suggestion besides, one which he was happy to champion once he’d thought it through. Perhaps your fears are unfounded, and you and the Regent will come to see eye-to-eye after all.”

“I hope you’re right,” she murmured, turning her face into the soft fabric of his tunic. “But I worry—”

“Shhh,” he hushed. “You’ve dwelled enough on your worries today. Rest for a while, Fi. You’ve earned a bit of peace.”

She shut her eyes, letting out a long sigh. She couldn’t resist his offer: the temptation to let her guard down and allow him to shoulder her burden for a while was too strong. She could allow herself this one luxury.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Anything, Fiona.”

Head on his shoulder, she let herself relax and bask in the adoration that flowed off of him in gentle waves.

…

With no small amount of guilt, Fiona acknowledged that she was pleased by Lady Sybina’s absence. She had come to dread each summons to the Regent’s sitting room, knowing that she would spend the evening caught between Sybina’s bids for attention and Valory’s heartless dismissals. She knew the situation to be untenable, and worried that the fallout would come down on her at some point in the near future. This evening, however, the suite bore no other occupants. Casting a final glance around the sitting room for any unwanted company, Fiona settled into her chair at the desk and began sorting through paperwork.

“What have we?” Valory asked. In the past his words would have startled her reverie, but on this occasion she had felt him directly behind her, contemplating whether or not to pour himself a nightcap.

“Proposals, my Lord.” She bit her tongue against chiming in on an internal debate he didn’t realize she could hear, turning her attention instead towards prying open the wax seal of the first envelope.

“And?”

“This one is from Lord Dorian—”

“Warrick’s . . . uncle?”

“On his father’s side, yes,” Fiona replied. The half-smile on her face fell as she began to skim the contents of the letter.

“More bad news?” Valory asked, moving to read over her shoulder.

“I—” she stuttered, dropping the letter, “I suppose not, my Lord. It’s only surprising to read something written about me in the third person.” She felt the dart of _annoyance, worry_ that stole through him at her words. As he skimmed the letter over her shoulder, she could even pick out snatches of phrases read in his voice.

Upon reaching the conclusion of the missive, he let out a derisive snort. “Danger comes and all they think about is the family name.”

Fiona cast a cautious glance over her shoulder. “Is this a proposal you would consider?” She found herself meeting Valory’s piercing stare.

“Do you want to marry Dorian’s son?” he volleyed.

“I—” she bit her lip. It would be simple to twist the truth, but where would that get her? Her uncle had implored her to be honest with the Regent, so honest she would be. “No. I do not.”

“You desire another.”

She dropped her eyes. She shouldn’t be surprised that he had already worked it out. “I don’t think it’s a matter of my own desires, my Lord. I will go where I must.”

A deep torrent of melancholy poured off of him at that, strong enough that it made her press backward in her chair to escape it. She winced against the onslaught, hearing the word _duty_ repeat in his mind several times over.

“You’re right. It’s not a matter of personal desires,” he said, fingertips tightening over the back of her chair. “But while this is something I may have to ask of you, do not make the mistake of thinking that I would ask it lightly.”

“I know that. I know that you would not do so just as a means of being rid of me,” she said.

He moved so he could look her in the eye. “Then why are you acting as though you fear the decision I am to make?”

“Forgive me, my Lord – the proposal from Lord Dorian caught me by surprise. I suppose there is a part of me that thinks it too soon to entertain such proposals. Perhaps I am past age, and old to be having such thoughts, but I fear the timeline that we were given this morning. I fear making myself ready to be wed in less than three weeks’ time.”

“Your fear is unfounded,” he said. “I will not make so drastic a move until Anaphe is secure.”

“Even should a more suitable proposal cross your desk?” she asked, wary of his words even though she knew he was being honest. “I do not mean to flatter myself, but I suspect that others are forthcoming.”

Valory rolled his shoulders. “Politicians are scavengers and opportunists. I would be more surprised if I didn’t receive a stack of bids for your hand.”

“And you’ll ignore them?”

Her disbelief must have been plain. “You know what they say about gift horses, Lady Fiona.”

He was right: she was a fool for pressing the topic. “Of course, my Lord. Thank you – I can’t tell you what this time means to me, even though I know it is a political move and not a favor. Regardless, thank you.”

“Thank not me alone; your hand is not mine to give away. The question of marriage is one for Arden to—” he stopped abruptly, overcome by a memory that projected itself at her. Fiona saw what passed through his mind’s eye; she beheld the sight of her uncle standing upon an altar in a great cathedral, an expression of devastating sadness on his face. Her heart wrenched in her chest, and she knew that the longing and distress she felt was not hers, but Valory’s.

“Are you . . . are you alright, my Lord?” She had risen out of her chair, unthinking, and moved to stand before him.

He took a step backwards, and she wondered if he knew of her intrusion into his thoughts. “I was caught in a memory. You’ll find that we are in similar situations, you and I. Marriage is a sore subject.”

“Why?” she asked. “You signed a contract, did you not?” She knew that she was prying, speaking out of turn, but assailed as she was by half-formed thoughts, memories, and eddies of feeling she couldn’t help the words that came from her mouth. “You were the one who sought Lady Sybina’s hand.”

“No; my father sought and signed that contract on my behalf.”

“She’s not who you would have chosen?” In spite of all she had witnessed of the Regent’s relationship with his wife, his words had still surprised her.

“No.”

“She cares for you.”

“I know that.”

She could feel the regret and guilt pooling within him. _He knows. He knows he is hurting her when he rebuffs her. He is perfectly aware of his actions_.  She couldn’t decide whether that was better or worse. “Then who . . .” she shook her head, aborting the thought. “You have more control over your destiny than I, my Lord. Could you not have had your choice?”

A deep, throbbing pain lanced through her.

“No,” he said, voice quiet. “My choice is not the marrying kind.”

With those words, everything she knew about the Regent shifted, snapping into focus in a way that it hadn’t before. She saw, clear as day, two critical pieces of the puzzle that she had somehow missed. She knew who occupied his thoughts. She knew of whom he spoke.

It was her uncle that Valory loved, her uncle who would have been his choice if the world had allowed it. She had been so wrong: her uncle was neither a replacement for a lost lover nor a spot of relief to soothe a base need. The Regent loved her uncle the way that she loved Malcolm: with a steadfast sort of desperation that took one’s breath away. Yet for all of that, he had upheld his part of a duty-borne contract and married Sybina anyway.

It had never occurred to her that what he felt for her uncle and what she felt for Malcolm could be the same. It hurt, to be forced to acknowledge her error – to face something she had both misconstrued and overlooked. Though it was painful and shameful, she resolved to confront it. She would never be so blind again.

Her hands moved of their own volition, taking his larger ones within them. The contact acted almost as a conduit for her enchantment, and though it was accompanied by a piercing pain behind her eyes and a terrible ache in her teeth, she clutched his fingers and let herself finally understand—

_How can we do to her what’s been done to us?_

_If you were here, you could speak with her in that way you have. She is upset and I don’t know what to say._

_Where are you? Why have we not heard from you? What will become of Anaphe if the treaty fails and you return without aid?_

_What will become of me if you don’t return at all?_

His imagination took flight at that, picturing a hundred different scenarios – some terrible to contemplate – all flitting through his mind in the space of a few seconds.

_Be safe—_

An entreaty, and the blur of images paused on a single picture of a dimly-lit room with a curve to one wall _– Windjammer,_ she realized – where her uncle stood, arm outstretched, vambrace buckles undone. She watched the surprise and pleasure cross his features as a kiss was placed to the tender skin on his wrist, and the buckle tightened down with calloused fingers.

_Return to me._

“You love him so much,” she choked out, and realized that there were tears tracking down her cheeks.

Valory must have known what she had seen; he was trained well enough to recognize when others delved into his thoughts. Yet he seemed neither surprised nor affronted by her declaration. “He is my Steward,” he said.

Fiona knew that he was not dissembling. It was the only word he had for her uncle, for a man who was friend, brother, and lover all at once.

_Another image, at that, of her uncle knelt with his hand on his heart, speaking the ancient words of his House._

_An image of Arden, eyes alight with mirth, trading snide whispers during a council meeting._

_A raging battle shipboard, with creatures so terrible it made her breath catch, yet she felt (Valory remembered) the warm presence guarding against approaching foes._

_Her uncle, laughing as he attempted to walk the length of the quarterdeck on his hands._

_His face, peaceful in repose, a halo of red-gold spread over the pillow beneath him, long fingers interwoven with a darker set._

“I didn’t know,” she whispered, shame creeping through her.

To his credit, he must have been aware of what she had pulled from his thoughts, and understood what she meant to say. “That was our intention. Your uncle is my Steward and my friend, but the rest is between us.”

Fiona shook her head. “I knew there was more to it than that; I heard some of your thoughts and felt some of what you felt before his departure. It surprised me, and didn’t make any sense at the time, and I jumped to a conclusion—” she dropped his hands and turned away. “The things I thought – my father would be ashamed.” She felt comprehension and dismay dawn in him.

“You thought I had dishonored your uncle, and by extension, your House,” he said.

“And your wife,” she added, voice small, before she could stop herself.

Valory let out a bark of mirthless laughter. “I’m afraid that, at least, is no false assumption.” She watched him roll up his shirtsleeves, revealing the vambraces he wore beneath. “Do you know what this means?”

Even if she hadn’t, she’d have been able to pick it from his mind with ease. He’d let any semblance of a guard down, and was projecting thoughts and feelings rapid-fire. “I thought I did. I know what whispers and gossip I’d heard about such things. They said that two soldiers sometimes—” she cut herself off, blushing crimson. She had almost forgotten that it was the _Regent_ she was addressing – the Regent who, much to her surprise, snorted with amusement at her words.

“Yes, and soldiers and sailors sometimes do.”

“My father warned me against listening too close to what was said in the city. He said things were different away from Anaphe and Dramor’s influence, but I didn’t quite understand. Now I see. I—” she wrung her hands. “They say there is no love between soldiers, no real regard. They say that any association is base. I believed that.”

Valory considered this. “Arden feared you would. It was why he said nothing, even though we knew you would one day probe enough to learn what you have.”

“But that’s just it, my Lord. I’ve heard and seen enough of your thoughts and memories to know that I made a false judgment. I’ve done you a grave disservice, and thought uncharitable things about your character. I didn’t realize that your motives could be so akin to my own. Please forgive me for being so Anaphean.”

“You _are_ Anaphean,” he reminded her. “There is nothing to forgive there: you should be proud of what you are. I can, however, forgive you for listening to the counsel of gossips, which you would do well to avoid in the future.”

“Yes, my Lord,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I’m sorry that your Steward is away, and you have so paltry a replacement.”

She felt the anger snap through him at her words and flinched, fearing that she had finally caused him to lose his temper.

“Do not say ridiculous things,” he said. “It is beneath you, and beneath your House.”

The ache in her teeth swelled, and she realized that he had done it on purpose – that he was forcing his thoughts outwards. Words and images and half-formed phrases exploded behind her eyes, far too uncontrolled to be duplicitous in nature. She saw herself as he saw her: young, idealistic, capable, intelligent, devoted. She felt the ache in his chest that he felt each time she said or did something that reminded him of her uncle – an ache that stole her breath and left her feeling winded. She could see the kinship he felt for her, both as his Steward’s niece and as a compatriot in Anaphe. She felt the pity and understanding he had for her situation, the guilt he carried for putting her through something he had so recently suffered.

He was a lonely man, idle and out of place, feeling uprooted after so many months at sea. She was a bright spot in his day: a reminder of the one he missed, but also an ally in her own right. She knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was glad to have her as such. He believed that she would one day do great things just as her uncles had, and grow into a title that he had no intention of taking from her.

“I’m honored you think I follow in his footsteps,” she said.

“And those of your mother and father,” he added.

At that he brought his guard up once more, deadening the sharp and bright swirl of his mind as he had when they were standing before the council. She let out a sigh of relief; though she was glad for what he had shown her, she was exhausted by the onslaught. Still, despite the effort she knew he put in, he was unable to hide everything from her, and the background hum of thought and feeling still rubbed against her senses. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“But?” he prompted.

“Ever since I began my training with Gabriel, I’ve found that even those raised in the court have difficulty blocking me out completely. That’s not to say I try to pry, but—”

“Your enchantment is working of its own volition, and you overhear things you’re not meant to. I know. I can feel you in my teeth.”

Her hand flew up to her face. “You too?” she asked, startled. “Really?”

The expression on her face must have been amusing because he succumbed to surprised laughter – a loud, undignified, and honest sound. It was the first time she had heard it since her uncle’s departure. _I did that_ , she thought, amazed. _I lightened his spirits, just as Uncle said. Perhaps the Regent and I aren’t so different after all. Perhaps I can do this._

“Don’t look so shocked, Lady Fiona. I may not be known for my sense of humor, but that doesn’t mean I lack one.”

“Of course not, my Lord. I hadn’t thought you lacked one; I erred in thinking that we were too dissimilar in temperament for ours to find common ground.”

“Your talent, I think, will begin to teach you that things are rarely as they seem – especially amongst those of our station. Yet you must also remember that your talent is one that I lack. I have known that my presence made you uncomfortable for some time, but I have known not why, nor what I could do to ease it.”

“I apologize for the misunderstanding, my Lord. It was mine.”

“No more need for apologies: it is past us. And as a show of goodwill between us, I would prefer it if you would use my given name,” he said.

“If that is your wish, my Lord.” The response was reflexive. “Valory. My Lord Valory.”

A small smile pulled at his lips. “Those close to me call me ‘Val’.”

She pulled a face, worried at the impropriety of addressing him so, but still too nervous to defy his will. “Very well then, Val.”

He shook his head, a small smile capturing his lips. “Gods,” he murmured, “would you know I’ve had that exact conversation before? You remind me so much of him.”

“There are worse people to emulate,” she said, a smile spreading across her face.

“Indeed.” She watched his eyes drop back down to the desk, where the proposal still sat. “Now as for the matter of Lord Dorian’s missive, I’d say we’ve reached an agreement, have we not?”

“We have,” she said, letting out a delighted laugh as he reached behind her and snatched up the parchment, crunching it between his hands and winging it into the fireplace.

“Consider it rejected,” he said, a sharp grin transforming his features. “Now who’s the next one from?”

“That one? It’s Lord Samir’s sigil.”

Valory rubbed his hands together. “Good.”

“My L—Val?” she asked, furrowing her brow as he read the letter over her shoulder. She read along with him, wondering how he could be happy about anything Samir had written. He pulled the parchment from her hands just as she was finishing the last line – something about the particulars of the evacuation of the lower levels. “You seem pleased, my Lord.”

“Of course,” he said, crumbling this parchment as well, tossing it to the hearth just as he had Lord Dorian’s letter. “From the stack of papers you’ve brought me, it seems we’ll have a nice fire tonight.”

…

_She had dreamt of her mother ever since she was a little girl, ever since she was old enough to understand that she lacked something that many others had. At first she had plied her father with questions, sifted through what remained of her mother’s belongings, tried to remember. All she had were the briefest of memories: snatches of a nursery rhyme sung in a woman’s voice, dark red skirts, the soft white linens of a sick bed. No portraits existed of her mother, though Sybina had heard that she inherited each of her parents’ features in equal parts._

_As a child others had told her that her father married beneath his station, and married for love. As a young adult she learned that her father had given more consideration to his match than that. He had loved her mother – of that she had no doubt – but he had also been careful to choose a woman who, like him, was Oceanic in name but largely Dramorian by blood. He had chosen for the cause._

_Sybina wondered whether this woman she saw in her dreams was her mother – this woman with the tanned complexion and dark eyes, whose features were always blurry no matter how hard she focused. She knew that she was no Seer and had no talent for dreams without the aid of her Lord, but hoped she might still be granted this small boon._

_“You are not alone.”_

_The voice startled her. The dream of the woman faded, and with it the idle dreamscape her mind had conjured. For a moment she feared that Valory’s nosy Empath had managed to break through her barriers as she slept. She pushed instinctively against the presence in her mind, and felt a ripple of something cold and dangerous thrill through her._

_“Do you not recognize me?”_

_She faltered. “Forgive me my Lord – it seems I am slow to leave dreams these days. I did not mean any offense.”_

_The welcome, familiar presence of her Lord filled her thoughts, expanding within her mind as she yielded._

_“Human frailty.”_

_“As you say, my Lord.”_

_“Yet you grow stronger.”_

_She could hear the consideration and approval in his tone. A burst of pride lanced through her at his words; a balm to her still-aching heart. “Thank you, my Lord. I hope it allows me to better serve the cause.”_

_“You are one of my generals. If such strength is what you require to secure Anaphe, then you are fortunate.”_

_“Yes.” She recalled the last time Zathár had visited her, and attempted to think of all that had happened in the meantime. “When your armies march upon the peninsula, they will find the lowlands evacuated.” She felt something sharp trill through her, and knew that her Lord was amused by her words._

_“You are keen.”_

_“My Lord?”_

_A cold sliver tickled in her thoughts. Image spun in her mind’s eye – conferences with Samir, secret missives, two crowns smoldering to ash. “I have already taken what information I need.”_

_His power awed her, as it always did. “If I dealt insult I promise it was by accident, my Lord.”_

_“I see that you have misjudged the stubborn ignorance of Eramen’s sons.”_

_A shiver ran through her, leaving her feeling cold and ill. Fear gripped her. What if he wouldn’t forgive her error? She had tried her hardest to serve him, to bring her husband to their side. “I failed you, my Lord. I didn’t know.” An image of a pair of silver-stamped vambraces flashed in her thoughts. She winced._

_“I trust that this next task will be met with success rather than resistance.”_

_“Yes my Lord, please – give me the chance to prove my continued loyalty to you.”_

_She knew he sensed her relief. He had pardoned her this one time, and she would not require a second. Whatever task he charged her with next she would fulfill it – or die trying._

_Her fervor pleased him. She could feel it._

_“Good. You will eliminate our greatest threat to success in Anaphe.”_

_Conflicting thoughts swelled within her. She knew what he was asking, yet couldn’t imagine how she would – or could – see it through. Her husband was disloyal, was ignorant, was stubborn in his devotion to idolatrous gods, but soft feelings for him still resided in part of her heart. As she began to worry that she had earned her Lord’s disfavor, the bland dreamscape before her transformed into her husband’s bedchamber._

_“You will wait until he rests the night before battle,” he instructed._

_The image shifted, daytime turning to night, the empty bed suddenly occupied by her sleeping husband’s form. Her perspective changed as well, and instead of standing in the doorway she lay in bed beside him._

_“Go to him. He will not deny you company that night.”_

_In the vision, she reached into the bodice of her nightgown where a long glass vile sat nested inside a carefully-sewn pocket. The liquid inside it was pale and cloudy. Her focus was then drawn to Valory’s turned-away form, his broad shoulders, his upturned ear._

_She knew what she had to do._

_It would be that simple._

_“Your man will aid you in the procurement of the poison. He knows an apothecary who will not speak.”_

_Bolstered by his show of faith and the clear path he had given her, she felt her courage returning. Though her heart still smarted, she was resolved to do more than moon over a man who could never be what she wanted. She could do this task. She *would* do this task._

_She would not disappoint her Lord a second time._

_“I know you won’t.”_

She opened her eyes. The musky tang of incense was thick on her senses; around her, candlelight cast long shadows throughout the room. Samir must have heard her stir, for he turned from the padded stool upon which he had been kneeling in prayer.

“You fell asleep, cousin.”

She bristled at the reproach in his voice. It was a sin of the highest order to fall asleep during prayer, yet the dreams of ordinary Dramorians did not yield the honor of a conversation with their Lord. With a sidelong glance at her cousin, she wondered whether or not it irked him that she, a young woman of eighteen, had been chosen for such an honor when he was passed over.

She took a breath. He was loyal, but weak. He deserved her pity, not her ire.

“I spoke with our Lord.”

His contrition was apparent. “I hadn’t meant to imply—”

“ _Your words are forgiven, Samir._ ”

A sigh of relief left his lips. “ _Did you tell him the frustrating-news of the past week_?”

She couldn’t help but smile. “ _In a manner of speaking, yes._ ”

“ _And_?”

“ _It is not for us to have all of the answers_ ,” she chastised. “ _Our Lord has not yet reached his full righteous-power, and yet he spends much of himself to keep us apprised. We are not owed such information, not when it comes at such a cost._ ”

Samir bowed his head. “ _Of course. Apologies. I only hope that the warning that the evacuees will give the coastal settlements won’t hurt our cause._ ”

“ _We will triumph_ ,” she said, risking from her chair, weak in the knees from the strength Zathár had taken from her during her vision. “ _As one of our Lord’s generals, I have been given my orders. I will carry them out when the time comes, and Anaphe will be ours_.”

Samir stood as well, hovering at her elbow lest she require the support. He had seen her collapse after visions before, and knew that she often overtaxed herself in the name of the cause. “ _How may I serve_?”

“ _We are to ensure victory in Anaphe_ ,” she said, leaning into his supporting hand. “ _The evacuation may not allow us to deal the crushing-violent defeat we had hoped, but the city will fall. If no more aid comes, it will not last to see the setting of the sun._ ” She turned to him. “ _The Regent must meet his end on the eve of battle. I have been shown the way_.”

“ _You are willing-able to do this?_ ”

Her smile faded. “ _I won’t be simple – I know that – but I won’t shirk my duty. I’ll require your cunning-aid, as well. You must make contact with the apothecary—_ ” she trailed off. “ _And_ _I must take my heart back from one who doesn’t want it. I must follow through with our Lord’s orders_.”

“ _If you need me to take this heart-burden from you, cousin—_ ”

“ _No_ ,” she shook her head. “ _I will make amends for my failure. The Regent will meet his end by my hand, and mine alone_.”

Samir’s eyes were bright at her pronouncement. “ _It will strike a terrible-death blow to the city_.”

“ _And then the march will continue northward. The coastal settlements may prepare for what’s to come, but they will not be able to fight for long. Once we pass the Midland gulf-coast, we have only one more obstacle standing in our way_.” She knelt back down upon a prayer bench, lacking the energy to remain on her feet.

“ _Armathia_ ,” he breathed. “ _Its days are numbered_.”

She shut her eyes, pressing her palms together. “ _After an age, our time has finally come. We are lucky-blessed, you and I. The Age of Zathár is upon us, and we are to be a part of it_.”


	13. Chapter 13

_The Season of Renewal  
Illád the 15; 2422_

Siath watched his Steward over steepled fingers. Verne was standing at attention on the other side of the small antechamber, hands clasped tight behind his back, face an impassive mask. Despite the control evident in each line of Verne’s body, Siath knew that his nerves were getting the better of him. He could see the occasional twitch of his fingers, the worry lines appearing between his brows.

In the room beyond, Agatha let out another pained cry. Verne made an aborted move for the door.

“She’s in good hands,” Siath said.

Verne turned to regard him, a severe set to his features. “Of course, my Lord.”

“My mother will come for you if aught is amiss,” he continued.

“I know that, my Lord.” He turned to stare at the door once more. “Still, it seems to me that I have been neglectful in my duty to her. I have left her to face this alone.”

“As have most men of Oceana, for as long as we can remember,” Siath pointed out.

Another noise of distress came from the room. This time, Verne flinched. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Even your father—”

As the words left his mouth, Siath realized that they weren’t at all the right thing to say – especially given the circumstances. Verne stiffened, resolved, and strode for the door. It opened to reveal the foot of a small bed and a rather irate midwife.

“This is the work of women and Healers,” she said, poking her head through the doorway. “I’ll not have you interfering.”

If the lack of respect for his station irritated Verne, it didn’t show. “I will see my wife.”

“You’ll only distract—”

“It has been the better part of a day,” he said, weariness etched into each word. “She needs—”

“It is not uncommon for the birth of the first child to take some time. You must be patient, Lord Verne, else you will only make things worse,” the midwife replied. She began to shut the door, which Verne stopped with a hand.

“I will not sit outside and listen to her suffering.”

The midwife’s eyes narrowed. “This is not the council hall or the battlefield, Lord Verne. This is not your enchantment. I ask you to mind your place.”

Siath recognized his mother’s voice as soon as she spoke up. “His place,” Persephone said, sweeping towards the doorway, “should be beside Lady Agatha if he so desires it.”

“My Lady—”

Persephone pulled the door open fully, beckoning Verne inside. “I believe I very much would have liked a hand to hold during the birth of my own two sons. If Lord Verne makes so uncommon and so generous an offer, who are we to dissuade him?”

“This goes against—” the midwife continued.

Persephone turned on her. “Beware, lest your adherence to strictures force you to contradict the will of a Queen.”

A smile snaked across Siath’s features. His mother preferred delicate wording to brute force, but the threat she made was clear. The midwife fell back, chastised, and resumed her position at the foot of the bed. Verne cast a glance over his shoulder in Siath’s direction; Siath waved him away. He was happy to remain in the antechamber with Miran until the good news was announced.

The door swung shut behind them.

Siath let out a long breath, stretching and turning towards the paperwork-laden table at his side. He thumbed the reference volume Verne had given him a day earlier – something about the Banishment – before pushing it aside. It was expected that the King attend the birth of the future High Steward, and so he had spent the better part of the day with Verne and a stack of backlogged work. Though there still remained plenty to complete, Siath had long since surpassed his ability to concentrate.

Glancing around the room he noted that Miran was asleep, having succumbed to the late hour. Verne’s own side table bore several neat stacks of papers. It didn’t surprise Siath that his Steward had managed to finish his work even while fretting over the health of his wife and unborn son. Indeed, he had seemed glad for the distraction; his rigid pacing had begun only after the last stack was sorted.

Sitting on top of that final stack was a set of prayer beads. It took Siath a moment to recognize them – his Steward was not prone to fiddling with such objects – and another moment to wonder whether or not Verne would miss them. It wasn’t uncommon to carry a set of beads in a pocket for luck, and he knew his Steward might wish for them as events progressed. Debating whether or not to bring them in – he may be King, but he knew the midwife was liable to give him an earful regardless – he finally decided that, now that things had quieted down, he might be able to slip in without causing offense.

He crossed the antechamber to the sounds of Miran’s soft snores and opened the door, careful not to let the latch click. He noticed Verne first, sat opposite Persephone at Agatha’s bedside. Agatha seemed unaware of the presence of the Queen, so focused she was upon her husband’s visage. As Siath watched, another wave of discomfort passed over her; this time she didn’t cry out, but reached for her husband. Verne took her hand between his own, holding tight until the pain passed.

“I am surprised to see you here,” she said, voice raspy and hoarse with exertion. “It is not what tradition would dictate.”

Verne tightened his grip on her hand, placing a kiss to her knuckles. “I find I have little care for tradition at this moment. I am your husband: this is both my duty and my right.”

Siath stepped forward, earning a disapproving glare from the midwife. “You left this. I thought you might want it.” He held up the string of beads, capped at the end by a small silver charm.

Verne reached to take it from his outstretched hand. “Thank you, my Lord,” he said, winding it around the bedpost nearest Agatha’s head after a moment’s pause. “Perhaps Illen will watch over us this evening.”

With a bow to Agatha, Siath stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him. A glance around the antechamber confirmed that Miran remained asleep.  Settling down into a high-backed chair near the window, Siath supposed he would follow shortly: they had gotten word of Agatha’s condition after a long morning of council meetings, and he was more than ready for rest.

A fresh breeze blew in through the narrow window at Siath’s side, making his eyelids feel heavy. The promise of sleep tugged at his thoughts, and though he wondered whether or not it was considered rude to nod off while one’s second’s wife was bearing a child, he found that he had little choice in the matter. The sound of night birds and Miran’s soft snores lulled Siath to sleep.

.

An anguished shout woke Siath some hours later. He leapt to his feet unthinking, disoriented, with a hand clutching the hilt of his sword. Opposite his chair Miran also startled awake as well. It took him a few moments to parse his unfamiliar surroundings and unexpected company. He settled when he remembered that he was awaiting the birth of Verne’s heir, and that any threat that faced Agatha was one that he would not be called upon to combat.

He supposed it was her shout that had woken him. A glance out the window confirmed the hour; it was well past midnight. He winced, rolling his neck. He couldn’t believe he had slept for so long in such an uncomfortable position, though he supposed it was testament to how hard they had been working over the past several weeks.

“Where is my son?” Miran asked, casting a glance around the antechamber.

“Inside, with Lady Agatha,” Siath replied. Miran raised a brow, but refrained from commenting.

From the noises coming from the room – mostly the midwife’s chanted directions and encouragement – Siath surmised that they were near the end of the ordeal. As if on cue the door opened, revealing Persephone’s tired face. “Come,” she said, “it’s time.”

Siath reached the doorway to see Agatha propped up in bed, red-faced with exertion, a sheet draped across her parted knees. The midwife sat ready at the foot of the bed, ignoring all else that occurred throughout the room. Her attention was focused upon Agatha alone, and on the baby about to be born. They maintained a dialogue: of the midwife telling her charge to be strong, to push, to breathe; of Agatha responding in half-shouts and near-sobs.

“You’re exhausted, I know. I’m doing what I can, my Lady, but you must _push_ —”

Persephone’s voice joined the chorus. “Only a little more and you’ll be able to meet your baby boy—”

Verne still sat beside his wife, her hand in his, alert and focused. He was silent but steadfast in his encouragement, stroking her hair in long, slow motions. As the midwife continued to repeat instructions, Agatha turned, burying her face in her husband’s shoulder, eyes screwed shut with effort.

“That’s it, my Lady – I can see him! Just one more—”

Agatha let out a low, keening noise. The midwife reached beneath the sheet. Siath could see Verne’s hands trembling with the effort of maintaining his calm.

The midwife looked up at Agatha, eyes bright with triumph. “Here he is!”

The shrill cry of an infant pierced the room. Agatha let out a euphoric sob of relief.

The midwife worked quickly beneath the sheet, a wide smile on her tired face. “My Lord, my Lady – you have a son,” she said, dropping the implement she had been handling on the table at her side and reaching for the swaddling cloth.

“His name is Alistair,” Verne said.

“I must hold him,” Agatha said, trying to sit up further. “Is he healthy? Is he—”

The midwife’s smile broadened. “Ten fingers, ten toes. And with lungs like that, my Lady, I daresay he’s healthy as a horse.” Having finished swaddling the baby, she lifted him up and walked around the side of the bed, placing him into Agatha’s arms.

Verne let out a choked noise, reaching out to stroke a finger over his son’s cheek. Captivated by the wailing infant and the brilliant smile on his wife’s face, it took him several long minutes before he remembered the King’s presence.

“My Lord,” he said, snapping to attention, “may I present my son, Lord Alistair bar Verne?”

Swaddled tight and nestled in Agatha’s arms, the baby had quieted. Siath stepped forward to stand at her bedside, looking down at the little face and tiny tuft of dark hair. He was present not only because the newborn before him would one day succeed his father as High Steward, but because it was his duty to honor the House of Stewards with the gift of Sight.

“Welcome, young Alistair,” he murmured, placing two fingers upon the baby’s brow.  He shut his eyes, pushing conscious thought to the background of his mind and welcoming the vision when it came.

_The boy had a full head of dark curls, baby-fine and soft. His round little face lit up as he reached for the fine embroidery on a pant leg. Just as he grasped the cuff between two chubby hands, he was whisked up into a woman’s arms._

_“Making mischief again, little one?” Agatha asked._

_Alistair let out a delighted giggle as she bounced him, watching with wide eyes as his mother turned back to the owner of the fascinating pant leg._

_“Curious, is he?” Valory asked._

_“Insatiably,” Agatha agreed, “and too smart for his own good, I suspect.”_

_Valory snorted. “The line of Stewards might know a little something about that.”_

_“If this is about this morning’s council . . .” Arden began._

_“Of course it is – though you were well within your rights to put that ignorant blowhard in his place.”_

_“Val,” Arden admonished just as Alistair reached up, grabbing a fistful of Valory’s hair and yanking._

_“Alistair,” Agatha scolded, removing the boy’s hand from Valory’s queue, “we do not pull hair: especially not that of the Regent.”_

_“He say mean,” the boy defended, eliciting a bark of laughter from Valory._

_“Gods, not even two years old and your boy is already monitoring the behavior of my House.”_

_Beside him, Arden rolled his eyes. “We need all of the help we can get.”_

_The vision shifted at that, fading to become Siath’s own sitting room. A candle burned on the desk, illuminating Verne’s pensive features. He was older, though Siath couldn’t tell by how much; grey dusted his temples and lines gathered at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He stared unblinking out the open doorway into the hallway. The sound of approaching footsteps could be heard, one set measured, the other less so._

_“Alistair!” Verne called, a long-suffering exclamation that reminded Siath very much of Miran._

_A serious young man entered the sitting room, a spitting image of a younger Verne but for the darker shade of both skin and hair._

_“Yes, father?”_

_“Where have you been?” Verne demanded. “Your mother searched all over the inner city for you.”_

_The gravity of the Alistair’s mien didn’t falter. “I wasn’t within its walls, father. I hope she wasn’t too worried.”_

_“What were you doing past the gates at this hour?” Verne narrowed his eyes at the scrape of feet just outside the doorway. “And what company have you brought back to the palace with you?”_

_A dark-haired young man – just out of boyhood – stuck his head in the doorway, an unrepentant smirk on his face. “It’s only me, Lord Verne.”_

_Siath felt a deep, arresting sense of recognition at the sight of him. His breath caught in his throat as his suspicion was confirmed._

_“My Lord,” Verne ground out, “what in Illen’s name have you been up to, and, pray tell, how did you persuade my son to shirk his duties and go along with it?”_

_The young Prince shrugged. “You know my uncle recently returned from the West.” A devilish smile lit his features. “You can’t grudge us the chance to spend time in such esteemed company, can you?”_

_Verne turned to his son. “Is this true?”_

_Alistair hesitated. “We did see the Regent and his men. I spoke with Uncle Arden at some length—”_

_“Is that rum I smell on your breath?”_

_Alistair winced. “Father, I—”_

_“Did you permit the Prince to imbibe? Don’t you give me that look, young man—”_

_The Prince laughed, grabbing his future Steward’s wrist and pulling him towards the doorway. “Come on, Ali—before we get a browbeating.”_

_They flew from the room, Verne’s livid words following them out. The door shut behind them of its own accord, and Siath wondered which one of them possessed such an enchantment as the vision shifted again._

_This time he saw Agatha, still plump following the birth of her son. She moved quickly and quietly in the dark, hustled along through thick trees by men wearing the King’s insignia. The gurgling noise of an infant on the brink of tears reached Siath’s ears. Agatha wrapped a protective arm around the bundle slung in front of her chest._

_“Shhh love, please,” she implored, voice no more than a whisper. “We must be quiet; else they’ll come for us.”_

_Alistair let out another soft whine before falling silent. Siath watched Agatha traverse the uneven terrain for several long minutes. He could feel the echo of the terror that gripped her, knew that it was clawing at her breast and making her knees weak. This vision didn’t belong with the others he had Seen: Illen was showing him another possible outcome, another thing that might come to pass. Siath steeled himself for what he would See, wondering why Agatha was fleeing alone._

_Sometime later she reached a small clearing in the underbrush. Several armed guards stood at the clearing’s perimeter, protecting those who sat within – almost all women and children. Siath recognized the cloaked figure in the center of the clearing with ease._

_“Agatha.” Persephone stretched her hands out, clasping Agatha’s in welcome. She craned her neck, looking to see who followed behind. “Your husband?” she asked. “My sons?”_

_Agatha shook her head, biting her lower lip. Unshed tears shone in her eyes. “They stayed behind. I begged Verne, but he would not leave his King, and the King—”_

_Persephone let out a low, grieved noise. The baby, sensing their sorrow, answered with another hiccup of distress. Together the two women turned to face the direction from which Agatha had come, hands clasped tight. Through the dense tree canopy a distant glow could be seen._

_Armathia was burning._

_The vision of the clearing faded, dark shapes transforming to show the long, rich lines of Armathia’s cathedral. Siath recognized the mosaic work on Illen’s altar, thought the angle seemed strange to him. His gaze was directed downward, then, and two small hands appeared before him on the stone tile. He was seeing through Alistair’s eyes._

_Siath’s throat burned, and he realized that the baby was crying as he crawled forward on the altar. Before him the form of a woman appeared, prone on the ground with limbs akimbo, a red pool seeping into the stone beneath her. The baby let out another wail. Siath recognized Agatha’s still countenance._

_The baby crawled on. Beside Agatha a second body was sprawled, cloaked in white and gold. Siath fervently wished he could leave the vision, but knew it was his duty to watch and wait. He beheld his mother’s lifeless form through Alistair’s eyes._

_A noise echoed through the cathedral, followed by shuffling footsteps. Alistair clung to the fabric of his mother’s skirts and began to cry in earnest. Even through tear-blurred eyes Siath could see the stilted advance of a group of figures. Alistair cowered as they approached._

_The first of the figures leaned down to examine the infant, movements awkward and slow. Siath felt bile rise in his throat as the face drew near, its features finally coming into focus._

_Empty sockets stood where eyes should have been._

Siath gasped, pulling his hand away from the newborn’s brow. Though exhaustion and nausea gripped him as soon as he attempted to stand, he found himself grateful for it: it was the only way he knew he was back in his body once more.

“How long?” he rasped.

A pair of hands – Verne’s – came up to support him. “Mere seconds, my Lord.” There was an unspoken question in his voice, one that Siath had no idea how to answer. It was tradition to speak some words about the newborn’s future, even if all he could say was cryptic and contradictory. Siath couldn’t imagine expressing what he had Seen, however – not when Illen herself showed him such disparate possibilities for the future, not when even she had no inkling of what might come to pass.

Siath realized that the only cohesive story his vision told was this: the decisions that would damn or save them had not yet been made. While that gave him hope, it also terrified him. Everything he had Seen was possible. The outcome, he knew, would rest on his shoulders.

“My Lord?” Verne prompted.

Siath snapped out of his reverie, eyes focusing on Agatha’s concerned visage. Alistair lay across her bosom, wide grey eyes staring up at him.

“Congratulations,” he said, voice hoarse.

He said nothing more.

…

Leaving the room in order to afford Agatha and Verne some well-needed privacy, Persephone bid goodnight to her son and began the winding trek through the palace to her rooms. Tired as she was, her thoughts wouldn’t rest. Her son’s vision had troubled him, and she could guess why that was; her own visions had been full of unsettling contradictions of late, underscoring the tenuous grasp they had upon Anaphe and the Borderlands. Her prayers for clarity of Sight went unanswered. While the Goddess wasn’t omnipotent – she knew that – Persephone was still unaccustomed to witnessing such confusion in her visions. She could only imagine how troubling such confusion was to her son, who felt the weight of the kingdom upon his shoulders.

Turning a corner she came upon a small alcove altar, a shaft of moonlight illuminating a three-point pedestal laden with flowers, fruits, and other offerings. She stepped forward, intending to spend a moment in prayer without care for the late hour. As she did, she realized that she was not alone.

“Lord Miran,” she said, “you startled me.”

“Such was not my intention, my Lady.” Miran’s form was wrapped in shadows on the other side of the altar, away from the light of the moon.

“May I join you?” she asked, gesturing to the carven stone bench upon which he sat.

“Of course, my Lady.”

She slid into the space beside him, arranging her skirts around her ankles. Bending her head she began her prayers. Just as she concluded the final words of the first prayer set, Miran spoke up.

“You are troubled, my Lady.”

Upon occasion she forgot that Miran was an Empath; it had always seemed strange to her that such a stern man could be so aware of the emotional state of others: even if his talent was as minor as he claimed.

“These are troubling times.”

There was a pause, one in which she knew that Miran was choosing his next words. “The King Saw something that worried him.”

“Your concern for your grandson is evident. My son should have spoken to you on the matter.”

“Did he share his vision with you after I left, my Lady?”

“No, but I would be surprised if my guess was inaccurate. Young Alistair’s fate is uncertain, as is the fate of our city, our kingdom, our people.” She turned her piercing gaze on the former High Steward. “Had it been aught concrete – any true threat to the boy’s life – you know my son would have said something.”

“He Saw nothing, then,” Miran said, face impassive.

“He Saw everything: things both joyous and tragic that may yet come to pass. We are at a crossroads. It is a most unsettling place for a Seer to be,” she replied. Miran went quiet at that, eyes trained on the altar. She could feel the tension between them, filled with his unasked questions. “Ask what more you will. I am not the only troubled one here tonight, it seems.”

Miran’s jaw tightened. “I would not presume to ask any boon of you, my Lady.”

She shook her head. “Miran.” Foregoing the honorific gave her his full attention. “You were amongst my husband’s dearest friends, and I would count you as one of mine, as well. Do not insist upon putting titles between our Houses where matters of family are concerned.”

He hesitated for a moment. “If that is your wish.” She knew that it had taken considerable effort for him to omit her title, yet he seemed pleased with her offer. “If you would – could – tell me anything you know, I would be glad to hear news of my son.”

Persephone knew he wasn’t referring to Verne. “I have not Seen him in the West, no.” She regarded him for a quiet moment. “He has been much on your mind of late.”

“Yes.” Miran kept his eyes trained on the altar, tone neutral. “Watching Verne come into fatherhood has brought such matters to my attention.”

Persephone let out a breath. “You cannot compare Alistair’s birth with Arden’s, nor can you stack Verne’s actions against your own.”

“Can I not?” he bit out. “Verne went to his wife in a time of need, damn the consequences. I didn’t go to Arianna until I was summoned.” His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “By the time I arrived, it was too late.”

“I remember,” she murmured.

“It was you who held her hand as she passed. It should have been me.”

“It was so unexpected—”

“There are no excuses to be made. I was at my desk, too far away to be fetched. Tonight, Verne was sat in the antechamber all the while. He is a better man than I.”

Persephone laid a hand upon his shoulder. “He is his father’s son,” she reminded him.

“Or, perhaps, more his mother’s. He did not send his infant off with the nursemaid. He did not—”

“Miran, please: the circumstances were so different. You had just lost Arianna—”

“Yes, and as a result of my behavior, I lost Arden as well. I even had the gall to blame him for it.” He turned back to the altar. “Of late I have given much thought to my culpability in such matters. Verne’s actions tonight have only encouraged me to shift the blame further onto my own shoulders.”

Persephone bit her lip. This was not a conversation she had ever expected to have with her husband’s Steward, and found herself underprepared for it. What more could she say? He was right, after all.

“Arden chose his path, as have we all. He is still your son, and there is still much of you in him. He is not Arianna. He is not gone beyond your reach.” Her words earned a heartless laugh in response.

“It will take the rest of my years to repair all that I have damaged, yet I fear that I will not have so much time.” He met her eyes. “I cannot—” his voice shook. “I cannot abide the thought that I allowed him to leave a second – no, third – time without letting him see my heart and mind. He does not know that I am proud of the man he has become, even if he became that man outside of my tutelage and influence.”

She pressed his shoulder. “He may not be an Empath as you and Verne are, but that does not leave him ignorant of your thoughts.”

“Doesn’t it? I have given him every reason to believe otherwise. Do you know that I have never told my sons that I love them? What weakness – for an Empath to shy away from so simple and honest a declaration,” Miran countered. “I have already lost one son. Am I to lose another before I cease my cowardice?”

She grit her teeth, pushing away the visions awoken by his words. They tempted her, swimming in the corners of her eyes in a bid for attention, but she knew that they would do nothing to answer Miran’s questions, and would only upset him further as a result. “We have had enough grief,” she said. “Illen will watch over him.” It was a platitude, but it was all she had.

“Persephone.” His voice was low, pained. “If he does not return, I will never forgive myself.”

“I know,” she murmured, thinking of Valory in that moment, isolated as he was from Armathian support. “Believe me, I know.”

He must have understood the nature of her thoughts, for he made no attempt at a reply. He lowered his head, hands sliding into his pockets where Persephone knew he kept a string of prayer beads. She could hear the muffled clicks as he began his prayers, and decided to continue her own.

_Illen, Captain of the Ship of the East, if you would see fit to hear my words . . ._

They remained at the altar for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a shorty, but it didn't really fit in with anything that came before or anything that I'm writing now, so here it is. Val's an uncle!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was fun -- the next one is going to be more fun -- but also kind of crazy, because I flipped onto my last page of story-boarding and it made me realize that I only have six chapters left after this.
> 
> Thanks again for all the comments and kudos. As always, feedback of all kinds is coveted and appreciated.
> 
> And by all kinds I definitely mean concrit. Trust me, I take it like a champ. Help me kill my darlings.

_The Season of Renewal  
Illád the 17; 2422_

Zaránd was a city of bridges, built on and around the wide, snaking river. Arden hadn’t expected the extent of the sprawling, stone-hewn metropolis and found himself feeling overwhelmed by all that he didn’t know about the West. The scientist in him wanted to explore every facet of the place: the river waters, the dockside stalls, the fringes of the city where roads met jungle. He took a brief, wistful moment to imagine how fine it would be if he were here in an exploratory capacity rather than a diplomatic one before pushing such fancies from his mind and turning to face his crew.

“We’ve an ideal slip, I see, and that’s likely because we’re regarded as a novelty. If all goes well and my bid is accepted you’ll have plenty of time to indulge your curiosity and that of the Westernese gathering at the end of our dock. If things go sour, however, we must be ready to move. While the Commodore and I are away I expect all hands up on watch. No Westernese guests, either, until we determine the warmth of our welcome.”

Callum nodded his agreement. “We’ll keep a sharp eye out and our wits about us. Good luck to you, lad.”

Arden turned to Félix, who wore a borrowed shirt with cuffs that fell too short on his long frame. “We’ve received word that the Lord of Belen is ready to see me.”

“ _They will be in lodgings near the city center_ ,” he replied. “ _There are several buildings where the delegations reside during council._ ”

“You’re prepared then, I take it?”

Félix tilted his head. “No less than you are.”

Arden huffed out a laugh. He had developed a fledgling rapport with the Commodore throughout the long hours spent strategizing; as a result he had come to recognize the man’s particular humor.

“That’s something, at least. You know the way, I presume.”

“I will take us there.”

They clasped arms with the crew for luck before disembarking. Arden watched as Félix took a moment to orient himself, glancing around the bustling docks. Arden wondered how he could make sense of any of it. The wharf teemed with activity, brightly-clad men and women working, walking, or perusing the wares of myriad fishermen. Arden was struck by how colorful the city was; the green of garden roofs stood out against the many-hued buildings, each one different from its neighbor. Even the people were gaily arrayed in flowing, dyed fabrics and colorful jewelry. He noted that many of the women wore the plumage of western seabirds in their hair, a curiosity that momentarily stayed his nerves.

“This way,” Félix said, breaking into his reverie.

He followed the Commodore through the wharf, admiring the stonework and intricate carvings that decorated each building they passed. The city was so different from those in Oceana; though there were some buildings in the distance that reached considerable heights, Zaránd was, for the most part, a flat city that hugged the banks of the river. It was hard for him to conceive of a city that wasn’t structured on a vertical axis, yet from the rows and rows of buildings running north and south along the water, Arden figured it to be close to Anaphe in size.

Thinking of Anaphe had his breath catching in his throat. He had seen the creatures they encountered in that seaside village in many dreams of late – dreams in which Anaphe was overrun and he too late to provide aid. The thought of Valory fending off such an enemy made him feel sick to his stomach with worry and guilt. Worry, because he doubted his ability to convince the tribal council to form an alliance. Guilt, because he was breaking his oath by leaving Valory without a Steward at his side.

It felt wrong to be away – a fact which seemed strange when Arden considered how long they had truly known one another. He considered them well-matched enough that things between them were uncomplicated if not always easy, and as such it sometimes felt that he had known Valory forever. Time away had not diminished this, and Arden had spent many a dog watch cursing the very apt aphorism about absence and hearts. Despite missing Valory near-constantly, Arden did occasionally find himself distracted – by the sail, by the intricacies of Western treaty writing, by (on this occasion) Zarándrian architecture – and such distractions would bring him momentary respite from the gnawing emptiness where Valory’s enchantment used to sit. The relief of forgetting was always short-lived, however, for the moment some sight or sound or turn of phrase brought Valory to mind once more, he felt immediate guilt for allowing his mind to dwell elsewhere.

It seemed wrong to permit himself the luxury of thinking on other matters when Valory was scrambling to ready a city of dubious loyalty for siege: wrong, and a dangerous waste of precious time. Arden was rife with nerves over whether their scheme would work, and knew that so much of it rested on his actions and judgments. If he failed here – well. It was unthinkable.

“You are nervous,” Félix said, breaking into his brooding thoughts.

“You can tell?” Arden frowned. Politicians the world round were like dogs: they attacked when they smelled fear.

“There is a look you have,” Félix elaborated, mimicking the expression of wild-eyed focus Arden had worn.

“Wonderful,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“It is only because I know you,” Félix offered. A slight smirk pulled at his lips. “If they say anything, I will tell them it is the way your face was made.”

Arden snorted. The humorous asides never failed to surprise him. “How thoughtful of you. I suppose you’re as calm as the Gulf before a storm, then, are you?”

“My nerves are still as a sea of glass,” he replied, the still-present smirk the only tell that he was having Arden on.

“Good – then I’ll let you do all the talking.”

Félix had the grace to look mildly horrified at the prospect. “ _And what a waste that would be, after all of the watches you’ve put in memorizing diplomatic turns of phrase._ ”

“You know, I’m starting to miss the days when you refused to speak to me.”

Félix’s smirk grew. “ _It isn’t the most opportune of times to be wishing thus._ ”

Arden rolled his eyes, fidgeting with the cuffs of his formal tunic. Félix was teasing him, but there was truth to the statement as well; he was drawing the stares of passerby, and it was only Félix’s presence at his side that kept others from approaching to satisfy their curiosity.

They turned another corner and the city center opened up before them: a great garden pavilion with street vendors peddling their wares and small troupes of performers and musicians drawing interested crowds. A number of makeshift rings had been set up throughout the pavilion where arms competitions would be held. A few were occupied by groups of men practicing for the trials. Paper lanterns and streamers strung overhead gave the place a festive atmosphere, but Arden didn’t make the mistake of thinking the scene benign. Armed guards in full dress uniform patrolled the pavilion and stood at the entrances to various buildings that housed visiting dignitaries. The uniforms were varied – Arden recognized the cut and color of the Belenese and Januzian navies, but the others were new to him.

Félix led him towards the building that boasted men clad in the familiar draped crimson coats that Arden knew from Illen’s Arm. He took a breath, making ready to announce himself to the guards, who moved to block his progress and eyed him with no small amount of suspicion. Any confrontation, however was averted by the group of uniformed sailors lounging on a nearby bench.

“ _Commodore!_ ” One man cried, launching to his feet. He was followed by his companions, their food and drink forgotten. “ _By the river, we’ve thought you lost all this time—_ ”

“ _Captain_ ,” Félix greeted, answering the man’s fervent salute. “ _It seems you survived your interrogation and ransom_.”

The man’s face fell, a haunted look passing across his features. “ _It was not what we would have anticipated, my Lord. You know the fish-man king unsettled us, but we let him in to protect and guard us. Then he was gone, and the Oceanic . . ._ ” the man shuddered. “ _The Oceanic can do terrible things with their minds_.”

Félix’s mouth flattened. “ _Dramor’s teachings left us unprepared for what awaited us. We thought many such matters to be the subject of myth, but the Oceanic are indeed capable of great displays of power._ ”

“ _And yet they give quarter, my Lord. It is a peculiar weakness_.”

“ _Weakness, perhaps, but one that has left both of us alive to fight another day, and all the less willing to draw a blade against them_.”

The Captain spluttered a protest. “ _I will do my duty, my Lord, no matter what allowances we were given by the Kilcoranians._ ”

“ _I do not question your loyalty. I would only have you think twice about the nature of weakness_.” Félix glanced at Arden. “ _There is much we do not know about the lands to the east. For now you must excuse me, Captain – I have business with my brother._ ”

“ _Yes, my Lord. Of course, my Lord_.” The Captain and his men snapped into another smart salute, and Félix led Arden inside without a word of inquiry from the guards.

“I’m amazed they said nothing about my appearance. They must have known me as Oceanic – look at me.”

“It is not the way of things in Belen to question one’s superiors,” Félix replied. “If they did not recognize your face from the battle, then they will not know what this means,” he added, gesturing to the silver crescent moons embroidered into Arden’s tunic.

“They soon will.”

“Yes. Then they will not dare come for you in the open. If you are a speaker in the council, they cannot raise a blade to you.”

“Did you not once tell me that the council often ends in violence?” Arden asked.

“In war,” Félix amended. “There is a difference. Few will act if their Lord does not say so.”

“And none will say so when they learn my name?”

“Not until the last arguments are read.” They reached an arched doorway, beyond which spread a lush courtyard. “Come.”

The guards beside the doorway reached for their arms when Félix and Arden strode in unannounced. Their hands were stayed by the shout of a man who sat in the courtyard’s center.

The man was tall and sun-brown, with short-cropped greying hair and Félix’s build. The clothing he wore was simple by Oceanic standards, yet his neck and wrists were draped in fine, hammered metals. Despite the differences in age and attire, the resemblance between the man and Félix was unmistakable.

“ _Son_ ,” the man said, crossing the courtyard in a few long strides. He grabbed Félix by the shoulders, wide, dark eyes studying his son’s face. He pulled Félix forward, kissing each of his cheeks in greeting – a foreign gesture that Arden found strange even though he had known of it.

“ _Father. I have returned unsuccessful_.”

Félix’s father looked at Arden, jaw tightening. “ _Yes. Yet you are alive – something we had not hoped for until now. That is a victory in its own right_.”

Félix’s bow of gratitude was interrupted by the approach of another figure, younger yet similarly bedecked, a near-mirror of Félix’s sharp features. “ _Brother. Am I to expect that your turn at ransom has come_?”

Félix bowed before his brother, laying a curled fist over his heart. “ _Yes, my Lord. I have come with Lord Steward Arden son of Miran, child of Oceana. It was he who captured my ship, and he who will speak the terms of my ransom_.”

Olivier sneered at Arden before addressing his brother once more. “ _And what sum does this weak-wristed diplomat demand? Shall he bleed us dry in the name of mercy_?”

Arden’s nostrils flared. “ _The weak-wristed diplomat demands no such thing_.”

Olivier lifted a brow. “ _You speak our dialect_.”

“ _Would it not be an insult to come to your House and demand that you speak mine_?” Arden asked, adopting the formal turn of phrase he had been studying for weeks.

Olivier, while not mollified, seemed somewhat impressed. “ _I see Oceana no longer finds us a suitable target of such disrespect_.”

“ _How could we, with the threat that came to our isles two seasons past? That is why I have sought your audience, and an audience is the price I have put upon the head of your Commodore_.”

Olivier’s eyes narrowed. “ _Then the price is paid, is it not_?”

“ _No. I come to request an audience before the tribes of Madesta at your annual council. I understand that I require state sponsorship to speak; that sponsorship is my price_ ,” Arden continued. He was focused, persuasive, and spoke without pause or waver.

Olivier glanced back and forth between Félix and Arden. “ _And for what purpose would a man of Oceana request an audience now, after centuries of disinterest in our affairs_?”

“ _We have a common enemy in Dramor and its overlord. I would use my audience to persuade you of that, and to repair the relationship between your prospective nation and mine. We wish to make amends for past misdeeds_.”

“ _At a very convenient time, I cannot help but notice_ ,” Olivier replied.

“ _You have leveled the field by attacking my people without provocation. We can now come to the table as equals_.”

Olivier turned back to his brother. “ _Félix, you cannot tell me you support this_.”

Félix met his brother’s eyes. “ _I have seen and learned much since I set out for the East. The offer he makes is honest; it is immaterial whether I support it or not_.”

“ _Yet he weighs it against the life of a Prince of Belen_.” Olivier turned his pointed stare back upon Arden. “ _You are deep within Madestan territory, surrounded by men loyal to my command. I could refuse your offer, have you killed, and still preserve the life of my brother. Why should I not_?”

Arden’s features hardened. “ _I had heard that Belen and its rulers were men of war. I have chosen to believe that you would not betray our custom of ransom: because you are a warrior, and have the honor of a warrior. It did not occur to me that you would fail to live up to your reputation._ ”

The silence that followed was thick. Arden met Olivier’s stare without flinching, face unmasked. This was the crux of his gambit: if he lost, he could pay with his life.

Olivier broke the stare first, looking first over at his father and brother before glancing around at the rest of his retinue, spread throughout the room. “ _I have the honor of a warrior_ ,” he repeated, “ _and you have the nerve of one_.” His smile was all teeth. “ _I like that._ ”

“ _Then it sounds as though we have reached an agreement_.”

“ _For the safe return of my brother, you will be permitted to speak in council. Do not, however, expect my support or protection. The others will not like what you say, and may seek to silence you. I will not incite more bloodshed between our clans at this critical hour – especially not for the sake of an Oceanic diplomat,_ ” Olivier warned.

“ _Very well. I am grateful for your generosity_.”

“ _You will be called to present your argument before the council within the next two days_ ,” Olivier added. “ _Some will be exceptionally displeased when you greet them in Belenese. I look forward to the display: it will be entertaining_.”

Arden supposed that, were he a different man, he might have had his confidence swayed by the power of suggestion, and figured that to be Olivier’s intent. “ _Then it is my regret to inform you that I speak most of the dialects with proficiency, and enough of the rest to not cause offense_ ,” he replied.

Olivier’s brow rose once more as he took a closer look at Arden, eyes falling to the cutlass he wore at his hip. “ _It seems Oceana was not remiss in their choice of diplomats. Interesting._ ”

“ _We do not take the proposed alliance lightly_.”

Olivier made a noncommittal noise, turning away from Arden and Félix. “ _I can see that. Be that as it may, I find myself weary of political talk. I assume you can show yourself out?_ ”

Arden took this for the clear dismissal it was, executing a smart bow. “ _Of course. May the river run wide before you_.”

Félix raised a brow at him – an implied query over whether he required aid – but he shook it off. Although he wasn’t looking forward to making his way back through the city unescorted, there was no way to justify Félix’s continued association with _Windjammer_ and her crew. It was a decision they had made before arriving in Zaránd, and though it was off-script for Félix to make the silent offer, it pleased Arden to see that their rapport had developed enough that the Commodore was willing to do so.

As Olivier waved a hand in acknowledgement of his parting words, Arden turned on a heel, saluted Félix, and made for the exit to the building. Félix would have more than his fair share of work repairing his relationship with his family without giving away his change of heart. That, after all, would be left for the final arguments in the tribal council. In the meantime, Arden had final preparations to make and a crew to brief.

The initial meeting with the Lord of Belen had gone as he had hoped; Félix knew his brother well, and had predicted the exact sort of verbal challenge from which the man would refuse to back down. Now the real challenge would begin. On the long walk back to _Windjammer_ ’s dock slip, Arden wondered whether or not his luck would carry him through the tribal council, or whether – fickle as such things were – his luck was about to turn.

…

Félix accepted the steaming mug of spice tea from the servant, double-taking when he realized that it was his father who had fetched him the brew. He slid sideways along the banquette upon which he sat, adjusting the borrowed shirt around him as he did. Months in captivity had done little for his frame, and Olivier’s shirt was far looser than it should have been.

“ _You have lost weight,_ ” Laszlo observed, joining him with a second mug of tea.

“ _It was worse during my initial captivity. I am much recovered over the past several weeks, when I was finally permitted to walk about the deck_.”

Laszlo frowned. “ _I was going to say – you have lost weight, but you look far better than I might have expected after six months in Oceanic hands_.”

Félix rolled his shoulders, eyes fixed on his tea. “ _The Oceanic are more merciful than I had anticipated_.”

Laszlo drummed his fingers on the cushion of the banquette. “ _When the ransom began, months ago, we thought that the Madesta had been lost at sea. It was only when your officers returned that we learned that your ship was the first to surrender_.”

“ _We were the first to make contact. It was a grievous error, father. We had taken ships more than twice the size of the schooner we encountered, and yet the schooner bested us in combat._ ”

“ _And you surrendered_ ,” Laszlo repeated.

Félix met his father’s eyes. “ _I had lost more than thirty men already; we were beset by the King’s brother and a team of his elite guards. You know as well as I that we were forced to press merchant sailors and landsmen for the journey to the isles. Some of my men had never before held a sword. Some of them were no more than boys. Of those who survived the action, several were grievously wounded. If I surrendered, they were to be healed and my crew spared. If not, I was promised no quarter._ ”

“ _A ship as fast as Madesta—_ ”

“ _You have heard tales, now, of what ordinary Oceanic men can do. Their Prince is no ordinary man. He took my shrouds without setting foot upon my deck. They would have dismasted us if we had tried to run_.”

His father sucked in a breath. “ _I spoke to your men. It was hard to believe you were so overmatched that surrender was your only option_.”

Félix ground his teeth. “ _Believe me, father – it galled me to do so: to see my men in chains and my ship turned into an Oceanic war vessel. Yet the price of fighting on would have been the slaughter of my men. I could not have done otherwise._ ”

“ _Very well._ ” Laszlo paused. “ _Your mother remained in Belen to advise Leonora in Olivier’s absence_.”

Félix didn’t blink at the change of topic: he was too grateful for it to protest. “ _Of course. How are they_?”

“ _Leonora is with child again; the physicians think it will be another boy. Olivier is pleased. Your mother is as she always is._ ” Laszlo’s deep affection for his wife bled through his words. “ _I only hope that you do not need to speak with her_ ,” he added, eyes searching Félix’s face for answers to his unasked question.

Félix shook his head. “ _I was put on the board by the Prince-now-Regent. He finds its use distasteful, however, and was weak-handed in application_.”

“ _Yet they must have learned enough to thwart our attack at Illen’s Arm_ ,” his father prompted.

Félix’s lips thinned. “ _I do not mean to say that captivity was pleasant, only that I never feared for my life. Not as I did in Januz._ ”

His father nodded. Laszlo was a warrior; he understood what Félix meant to say.

Taking another sip of his tea, Félix watched his father out of the corner of an eye. He knew that their brief interview was not through, and knew the words that his father was wrestling with.

“ _You are surprised by their mercy_.”

Laszlo pursed his lips. “ _We had not expected ransom._ ” He paused. “ _Some of our men received rougher treatment than others, but for the most part they kept their dignity. They were fed. Their wounds were healed. Once the Oceanic had the information they wanted, they spent their own resources bringing our men back. Your ransom is stranger still. I cannot understand why they would return you to us, knowing what they do of your position._ ”

“ _It is their way. They used the price of my head to buy themselves what they wanted, did they not_?”

“ _Yet you could sail upon their shores once more very soon, if things continue as they are_ ,” Laszlo pointed out.

“ _The Oceanic are not like us; war is not perpetually at their doorstep. In their eyes, ransom ends a conflict – it does not begin a new one_.”

“ _Then they have misjudged the West, and made a grave mistake_.”

Félix pursed his lips. “ _Perhaps_.”

His father gave him a worried look. “ _You are not yet yourself, son._ ”

“ _I am only newly arrived._ ”

“ _You must rest to regain your strength. I would suggest an activity to calm your mind – they are still adding names to the contestants in the combat rings – but you have fallen slack on your training._ ”

“ _Rest, father. That is all I need. I am interested in observing the council; it will renew my spirit. These months have been long_.”

Laszlo nodded, setting down his tea cup. “ _I will leave you to it, then._ ” He stood. “ _Will you join us for the evening meal_?”

“ _Of course, father_.”

“ _Good_.” He hesitated. “ _Félix_?”

“ _Father_?”

Laszlo reached up, fingers brushing against his son’s arm.  “ _I’m glad you are home safe, my son._ ”

…

It wasn’t all that difficult to sneak into the market. She had done so more on the principal of the thing than any real need to procure supplies for the ship; her father had prohibited her from exploring, which made the temptation impossible to resist. Although he had cited the language barrier as his chief worry – he hadn’t yet noticed that she was learning Belenese – she knew that linguistics wasn’t at the heart of the matter. Her father was worried about sending her out into a city neither of them had before visited, in a land where her mismatched sailor’s clothes would cause her to stand out even more than she already did.

As she weaved through the crowds, she admitted that he had a point; she had been stopped in the street so many times by curious Westernese that it had taken her the better part of an hour to make a short walk into the stall-lined streets near the city center. She was glad to encounter the occasional Belenese turn of phrase – and found the Januzian and Zarándrian dialects tolerably similar – but Arrindurian and Oktánian were no more than gibberish to her. In an attempt to deflect some of the attention, her first purchase was a beautiful, multi-hued shawl with delicately beaded fringe. Aside from soothing her vanity – she felt very pretty with it wrapped about her head and shoulders – it served the secondary purpose of making her clothing blend in just enough to avoid attention from onlookers, and she reached the part of the market she sought unmolested.

She wandered past stalls overflowing with produce, cuts of meat, and jars of pastes and jellies. She watched as Western matrons and servants haggled for their wares. It wasn’t so different from an Oceanic market: the rapid-fire negotiations were interspersed with greetings, good-natured quips and laughter. Ehrin hovered at the fringes of the crowd, trying to be unobtrusive in her observations. She hated it when she was noticed as a prospective buyer even on her home island, and preferred to do her shopping without the nattering of someone eager to sell in her ear.

As she walked past emptier stalls, some of the merchant men and women would call out to her in Zarándrian and, not receiving a response, would try their hand at greetings in other dialects. Ehrin made a private game of trying to identify which was which, but knew that her study of Belenese was nascent enough that her ear for Western languages was limited at best. She did, however, perk up when a young woman about her age hazarded a greeting in Belenese, waving towards the canopy of bundled and dried spices above her head and inviting Ehrin to come have a look.

Ehrin approached the stall, soaking in the little details that she had missed when hanging back behind the crowd. The woman seemed to wear her wealth in hammered metal bracelets that decorated each wrist; she even had metal hoops thrust through holes in her ears, a practice that Ehrin had heard about but never seen. She, like Ehrin, wore a shawl that covered her dark, curly hair, but Ehrin could see that feathers were braided into the elaborate style.

“ _Belen_?” the woman asked, a hesitant smile showing her teeth. Her skin was dark like a Lyrian’s, but her eyes had the same hazel hue as Félix.

“ _I speak a little Belenese_ ,” Ehrin replied.

The woman’s smile broadened. “ _Me too. Very little_.” She gestured to her stall. “ _Lady want to look? Many herbs and spices._ ”

Ehrin stepped inside the small tent, noticing a young boy sat behind the table, a two-stringed violin balanced between his knees. The instrument was different in size and shape from Jonah’s, but produced a similar sound when the boy plucked at the strings.

“ _My son_ ,” the woman said, gesturing to the boy. “ _Learning_.”

She added another word that Ehrin didn’t understand, but assumed was the name of the instrument. Ehrin nodded in response, smiling and waving at the boy. Turning back to the woman, she asked, “ _Spices_?”

The woman led her down a long table at the back of the tent, naming each spice-filled basket in turn. One or two of the spices she recognized by sight or name, but the rest were completely foreign to her. “ _What lady want_?” the woman asked as they reached the end of the table.

“ _I’m from east of Belen. I do not know these_ ,” she admitted.

The woman chewed her lip, looking over her wares. “ _You like bread_?”

“ _I make bread, yes_.”

The woman smiled, bustling over towards one side of the table and lifting a basket for her to smell. “ _Good for bread_.” Ehrin inhaled the nutty scent. “ _Like_?” the woman asked.

“ _I like_ ,” Ehrin nodded. “ _And spice for stew_?”

The woman shook her head. “ _Don’t understand_.”

“ _Soup_?” Ehrin tried again.

“ _Soup!_ ” the woman nodded, excited, and led Ehrin by the hand to the other end of the table, indicating several baskets. “ _Fish, chicken_.” She added several more animal names that Ehrin was unfamiliar with, some of which she suspected were in Zarándrian. Deciding to be safe, she pinched a small amount of spice for fish and chicken stew between a thumb and forefinger and tried them. They were completely different than anything she had ever tasted – she knew she had to have some for the boys.

“ _For bread, fish, and chicken – how much_?”

The woman was thrilled by this, bending beneath the table and emerging with several cloth bundles of different sizes, tied at the top with a length of hemp string. “ _Size_?” she asked. When Ehrin indicated the amount she wanted, the woman nodded, doing sums in her head. She named a figure that Ehrin didn’t understand, and, upon repeating it, bit her lip once more. “ _Belenese numbers, do not know. Other dialect?_ ”

Ehrin shook her head, stifling a laugh. “ _Write_?” She mimed along as she spoke.

A chuckle escaped from the woman’s throat as she dug beneath the table once more, standing with a piece of scrap paper and small wax pencil in one hand. She placed the paper on the table, writing a clear figure – one which Ehrin had never seen before. It occurred to her, then, that if the woman couldn’t speak Belenese numbers, she wouldn’t be able to write them, either. At Ehrin’s puzzled look the woman began to laugh at their predicament, a laugh that Ehrin echoed. Tapping the pencil against her lips, thinking between her giggles, the woman made a triumphant noise and marked down several lines on the bottom half of the paper. Ehrin immediately recognized the marks for tallies.

“Ah, fourteen!” she said. The confused look she drew made it clear that the woman had never heard spoken Oceanic before, either. With a grin, Ehrin took the wax pencil from the woman’s hands and crossed out four of the tallies. “ _Ten_ ,” she said in Belenese.

The woman must have seen the playful look on Ehrin’s face and known this for the game it was, for she redrew three of the tallies. Upon further consideration, she redrew half of the fourteenth one.

“ _Thirteen and a half!_ ” Ehrin laughed. “ _That’s not fair_.”

The woman let out a giggle and crossed out the half, letting her counter-offer stand at thirteen. Ehrin reclaimed the wax pencil, bringing the tally back down to eleven. With a mischievous grin, the woman redrew one more tally for a final offer of twelve.

“ _Alright, twelve_ ,” Ehrin agreed, reaching for her coin purse. She counted out twelve of the small, strange coins they used in the West and handed them over, receiving her parcel of spices in return.

“ _Everything_?” the woman asked.

“Yeh, _that’s all_.” Ehrin hesitated, stringing the vowels of the traditional Belenese words of parting together in her head. “ _May the river run wide before you_.”

The woman smiled again, reaching out to touch Ehrin’s hand. She understood. “ _And you_.”

Ehrin left the stall, waving over her shoulder as she did before returning back to the bustling street. She was glad she had picked the stall that she had; for all of their difficulty communicating with one another, they had still managed to have a laugh. The smile stayed on her face as she walked through the rest of the market, examining the strange animals and trying to decipher the words being shouted around her on all sides. From the marked novelty of her surroundings, it was impossible not to be aware that she was far from her homeland. The more she saw, however, the more similarities she noticed between the markets here and in Bightton. She wasn’t sure what she had expected from the Western people, but this wasn’t it. Her expectations, she acknowledged, may have been unfair. People, after all, were people everywhere.

…

“Sleep well?” Félix asked.

Arden rolled his eyes at the obvious sarcasm, scrubbing a hand down his face. “No, as a matter of fact.”

“I can see that.” He leveled Arden with a calculating stare. “You are well enough to speak before the others?”

“Yes. My sleep was troubled – that’s all. I’m prepared for council.”

Félix studied him for another moment. “Nightmares.”

Arden pursed his lips. “After what we saw in that town, a few sleepless nights are to be expected.”

“It is not I alone, then.”

“No; those things have been in my thoughts much of late.”

Félix nodded, tipping his head back to rest on the wall behind him. Arden followed his stare, taking in the elaborate fresco decorating the ceiling above them. The style was one he had never before seen, with vivid colors and textured strokes, where brush and knife had laid paint and plaster on thick. A representation of the river Ashaia ran through the work, a wide swath of blue.

“Lovely,” he said, happy enough to change the subject.

“Much work. They must continue to touch it up as the colors fade.” Félix cast a sidelong glance at him. “Does this surprise you, that we have such things in the West?”

“None but a handful of Lyrian traders have been West of our border in many years. I know no more than what’s described in the odd account, and those portray you as a far more nomadic people than what I have observed,” he replied.

“We call ourselves by the old names, and some of our people still practice the old ways. They travel with the changes in land and season. You will not see them here near the water. They live off the scrub lands or the deep jungle.”

“Yet the rest of you do otherwise.”

“Dramor’s influence,” Félix said.

“But you built these cities on your own terms. There is some of Dramor in your bloodlines, perhaps, but none of Dramor in this.” Arden gestured up at the sweeping artwork above their heads.

Félix gave a sharp nod of agreement. “My people are ready to be free.”

“This council could see to it.”

“ _That was its purpose: that Madesta might finally gain the rights it has long been denied. We have earned the right to be a sovereign nation, and cease paying tribute to men who would call themselves our overlords._ ”

“Then we must make them see that Zathár would be naught but another overlord.”

“It is why you are here today.”

“I’m not alone in that, I’d hope,” Arden ventured.

“Today I am not to speak,” Félix said. “We do not do things as you do. The first days of council are for arguments to be presented. There will be no debate. You will make a speech, and the others will listen. That is the way of things. Foreigners are not present for the debate. It is then that I will have to speak for you.”

Arden heard Félix’s unvoiced question. “I trust you will do an admirable job of speaking on Oceana’s behalf.”

Félix made a face. “I will speak on behalf of an alliance – not on behalf of your people alone. I fight for Madesta.”

“In an alliance of men, we are brothers. Don’t forget that,” Arden stressed.

“I do not yet trust that the rest of your people see things this way.”

“I can see that.”

“Time with reveal the truth,” Félix said.

“And what of your people? Has a truce between the states finally been called?” Arden asked.

“The argument was presented two days past. The treaty is all but signed; the agreement of all parties was clear.”

“That’s it, then? The stage has been set for us?”

“It is not an easy peace.” He hesitated, then switched into his native tongue. “ _There are many factions that wouldn’t consent to a peace treaty in any but the most extreme circumstances. The idea of a unified Madesta was opposed by many when it was first proposed, but younger generations have carried the day and demanded the change. Our people are tired of ceaseless campaigns and violence at the borders: understandably so. Older generations worry over how, after so many years as rivals, we can come together and create a government that equitably meets each state’s needs. With that said, the staunch opposition has softened and come out in tentative support of unification – especially after the arguments were presented in good faith two days’ past – but they are not yet wholly committed to this cause. We are treading on shaky ground._ ”

“My argument will not help,” Arden mused.

“No, it will not. But it is necessary,” Félix said, voice firm.

“Yes,” Arden said, thoughts flying hundreds of miles to the east, to the end of the peninsula where Anaphe was preparing for war.

“You are thinking of your Prince.”

Arden started, realizing that his fingers had come up to wrap around his pendant as he thoughts turned to Valory. He wondered whether this was always the case. “I must bring him aid.”

Félix cocked his head. “You are worried for him.”

“Of course I am. I’m – well. It pains me that my duty bade me leave him to fight without a Steward at his side.”

“If he did not survive this conflict, you would advance further in station, would you not?”

“That’s not necessarily true. Even if it were – even if I _would_ benefit from his passing—” A cold shiver wracked his frame at the thought. “I could never wish such a thing. No. It’s—” He scrambled for words. It was rare for him to struggle to find them, but he couldn’t seem to express the depth of the black, gnawing reaction he had to such a thought, as though his mind couldn’t tolerate the mere suggestion.

“You are like a Lieutenant who has built his career around a single Captain. You will not take the wheel of your own vessel because you cannot imagine doing so.”

Arden sucked in a breath, willing himself to not be angry that Félix had reached such a conclusion. “Oh, I can imagine it. It just seems a bleak and lonely way to live.”

“Then you consider it your destiny to remain a Lieutenant.”

“I have found my place.”

This, Félix seemed to understand. “Then that is what you fight to protect: the Prince who gives you this place.”

“I will fight to protect the life of my friend,” Arden stressed, fingertips pressing against the worn leather of Valory’s vambraces.

Félix opened his mouth to say something more, but was interrupted by the swing of the double doors beside them. One of Olivier’s aides poked his head out, bowing his head when he caught sight of the men he had been sent to summon. “ _They are ready for you, my Lords_.”

The chamber, built for the sole purpose of housing the annual tribal council, was a large, lopsided oval, wider on one end than the other. Each of the five states sat with their own in several rows, with heads of state on the floor level and their retinues taking up the space behind and above them. The fresco of the Ashaia ran above their heads through the center of the room, descending along the wall of the narrower end where the seating broke and a scene of great falls was painted. A table stood there, with a pitcher and a cup arranged in its center. Arden knew it for the place where speakers would stand.

Félix, with a nod to Arden, made for the vacant seat next to his brother. Arden passed Olivier with a formal bow and Belenese greeting before moving clockwise around the room to greet each delegation in turn: Januzians in their deep purple caped coats, Arrindurians in jewel tone robes, Zarándrians bedecked with precious metals, Oktánians sporting the strange formal headdresses he had only ever seen in books.

Each delegation responded in kind, though some seemed more surprised than others that a man of Oceana would have command of Madestan dialects. Upon reaching the table at the far end of the room he poured himself a glass of coconut water, arranging his notes as he took a sip. He had spent weeks preparing his speech and knew it by heart, of course, but found something comforting in having notes before him; especially since they were written phonetically in the Oceanic alphabet, and served as pronunciation cues for some of the more difficult passages.

He took a breath, touching his fingers to his brow, letting his mind call up Valory’s visage for a brief moment. Thinking of Valory gave him the determination to put down the cup and turn to face the tribal council. He would do this, and he would do it right. He had to. Valory needed him.

“ _As I am speaking with Belen’s permission, it is their dialect I will use this afternoon._ ”

He paused, allowing the murmurs to subside. The acoustics in the room were incredible – he could hear the whispers of the others almost word-for-word. Some were the precise tones of translators. Others, the quiet exclamations over the precision of his accent and word choice. One, he noted, was particularly surprised that humans could have red hair, and speculated on whether or not it was real. Arden tamped down on the urge to laugh.

“ _As rumor would have informed you, I come to speak on behalf of my King, Siath son of Adrianth, child of Oceana. I am Arden son of Miran, brother of the High Steward of Armathia, Captain in the Armathian navy._ ” He took a breath. “ _It has been many years since a man of my family has found himself on this side of the mountains: something that my King has a desire to rectify._

“ _My country and people are proud of their heritage – proud as you are – but that doesn’t mean we are without our foibles and follies. Some of these have come at your expense. There was a time at the beginning of this age when Dramor came for your lands, and we looked the other way out of fear. Years later King Athidry and his sons began a series of campaigns across the mountains, convinced that we were entitled to land that was already spoken for_.”

Arden heard the angry whispers that came as a result of his words.

“ _My forebears who watched you suffer Dramor’s incursion in silence were hypocrites. With Oceana a newly-unified nation, it is unconscionable that they refused to ally with Madesta to help you win the same kind of freedom._

_“As for Athidry: he was a fanatic. His vision for a greater Oceana was short-sighted and selfish. It seems that none considered that you and your people might wish for a greater Madesta, and for that there is no excuse: there remains only the shame we feel at our association with such men, and our desire to repair what damage has been done._

“ _You may rightly think that this apology comes several generations too late to have any meaning. It is a sentiment that I understand, but I ask that you hear me out regardless. As states, your conflict has not been with Oceana and Dramor alone, but also with one another. It seems to me that you are in the process of forgiving these ancient hurts in an attempt to move towards a better future. I speak for my King and my people when I say that Oceana wishes for the same things._

“ _You will know from your negotiations for a unified Madesta that different states will have different memories of past events, thinking themselves the innocent or justified party in any conflict. That is what it is to be human, is it not? To paint oneself in a positive light? To remember things in such a sequence that we can believe we have done no wrong? My forebears are no exceptions. We have written histories that portray our actions as necessary or excusable when they were often anything but. A very human failing, and one that my people exhibit in spades._ ” Arden shrugged, spreading his hands as a self-deprecating smile pulled at his lips. “ _I count myself among that number. I am no paragon of virtue_.”

The hall was silent save for the low murmurs of the translators. Arden could feel the eyes on him, and knew that he had their full attention. Still, he found himself feeling unnerved by the silence: it further reminded him that this was no ordinary day, and no Oceanic council.

“ _Yet I am not alone in that_ ,” he said, turning to face the Belenese and Januzian delegations. “ _What happened in the Oceanic isles late last year is no secret. Just as Athidry son of Loren once marched west of the mountains to claim land that was not his, our Belenese and Januzian neighbors sent fleets of warships to Kilcoran and Ithaka. I fought in both conflicts, my Lords, and I know what I saw: a tragic and unnecessary loss of life on both sides._ ”

Arden took a breath. “ _I am angry. Yes, of course I am – with the suffering of my people so fresh in my mind. Yet at the same time, what was done to the isles is no worse than what Athidry and his kin did when crossing the Western Mountains, and so how can I point a finger in your direction? After the long, intervening months I have even come to understand_ why _the invasion of the isles came to pass, and as a result, could I begin to assign blame without also assigning some to myself?_ ”

He leaned forward, palms on the table before him. “ _Januz and Belen were compelled to fight in a trade that could finally grant Madesta its freedom. Had Oceana not ignored your plight so many centuries ago, would you have been driven to such actions now? Who’s to say what impact such a change would have made? Perhaps the world would be different – different enough that we would not recognize it as our own. As a result I’ve come to believe that games of ‘what if’ get us nowhere.”_

Arden let his eyes rove over the delegations, meeting the eyes of each head of state in turn. “ _We have each raised arms against one another. We have each caused harm. Now the field between us is level, and we can sit here as equals. Indeed, it is vital that we do so, for the days grow darker and violence once again presses upon our borders. If we cannot put past deeds behind us, we will be unable to repel the threat when it comes. I speak now of our oldest enemy, one that you and I have in common: Dramor and the demon Zathár._ ”

There were some surprised voices at this – hushed and filled with quiet urgency. He paused for a beat to allow the whispers to die down before he continued.

“ _I know that you don’t think of the Oceanic Gods as such, and that you believe the demon to be a creature like any other. I do not ask you to keep faith with me – I ask only that you open your eyes to see things as they are, and act accordingly._

 _I know that you have been contacted by Zathár. I know what he has asked of you, and what he has promised in return. Yet you must understand: Zathár is not Oceana’s lifelong enemy out of any rewritten history or conceit. He is our enemy because he is the enemy of all men: he thinks us weak and servile, beneath his care, pawns for him to use and discard to further his own ends. He is not like us. He is not one of us. When I call Oceana and Madesta by one name I am not being lazy with my words – I mean to say that we are one in the same. We are men, and you are more brethren to me than my own Gods._ ”

The silence was clue enough that the delegations knew not what to make of his words.

“ _Yet as of this moment, the men of this world remain a force divided: and this divisiveness is precisely what the demon wants. It allows him to grow unchecked, to recover his former strength, to march upon our shores unmolested. He will bring with him an army from the locker, the likes of which have not been seen for the better part of an age. These dark armies have spilled into your borders; Belen’s Commodore and I have seen as much with our own eyes. You will soon see them too: puppets of the demon, deformed on the outside as they are on the inside._ ” His voice dropped, the low tones nonetheless carrying throughout the hall, a warning. “ _They have a hunger for violence that is not easily quenched. If you think that you will remain unscathed, that the demon will protect you: you are wrong. They have already been permitted to slake their hunger on your coastal towns; at least one village has been razed to the ground to pacify them. That is the plague that Zathár would bring to our shores. That is the cause for which the demon would have you fight._ ”

Arden paused again, taking a sip of coconut water to soothe his throat. The whispers had begun again –volleyed back and forth in each dialect, questioning the veracity of his testimony. He set the cup down on the table, eyes scanning his notes without need: he knew his next words.

“ _As I have said, I understand why you choose to fight for him. Zathár has promised you a great thing – something that you should have been granted long ago. As a representative of my King and country I wish to give you a better option than service to a demon. In my hand I have a treaty, already signed by Oceana’s King. It is a treaty that requests your alliance in the war against Zathár, and asks that you make this alliance as a unified nation. It recognizes your sovereignty. It is a treaty that would call Oceana to arms should Dramor or any other dispute your claim to independence._

_“Perhaps you think this is too little, too late – and perhaps in any other circumstances I might agree. But if you look at what’s bearing down on our borders – all of them – I would say that this is just in the nick. We still have time to press back against this darkness before it consumes us._

_“If you do not see the difference between allying with Zathár and allying with Oceana, then I suppose we are speaking at cross purposes. In that case I will only leave you with this: what does Zathár gain by offering you freedom?  If you cannot trust any other motives of ours, trust self-interest. By recognizing Madesta as a sovereign nation and forming this alliance, Oceana will cripple an age-old enemy and gain an ally in arms and trade. What are you giving to Zathár by uniting under one flag? Why should he allow it? What would prevent him from dangling the promise in front of you, inspiring you to act and act again in his name, only to never deliver?”_ Arden found himself looking directly into Olivier’s sharp stare once more. “ _And if he doesn’t deliver – how could you force him to?_

_“As individual nations we are powerless against him. He grows in strength every day. If we do not act now, he will grow beyond our ability to combat, and the age of men will come to an end._

_“The choice is yours._ ”

Silence reigned as his final words were translated by interpreters. If he were in Armathia, his concluding statement would have been swallowed up by councilors ready to speak over him to have their opinions heard. This was not Oceana, however, and while he had expected the eerie quiet, he found that he was unprepared for it.

As Félix had warned him, there would be no debate that afternoon. He gathered his notes, tucking them into the crook of his arm before reversing his previous circuit of the room. As he exchanged parting words with each delegation, he couldn’t ignore the prickling itch that stood the hair at his nape on end. Every pair of eyes in the hall rested on him – most set into impassive faces that gave no indication of how his words had been received.

He passed Belen last, where he executed a smart bow. “ _I am grateful for the opportunity you have given me_ ,” he said, pressing his closed fist to his chest before righting himself.

Olivier inclined his head. “ _I trust you have spoken your piece_.”

“ _I have_.”

“ _I was right, to say you had nerve. You showed much, arguing such a position before my people._ ”

Arden chose his reply with care. “ _I doubt my words were what any of your countrymen wanted to hear. I hope, however, that you will think on this proposal. It is made in good faith_.”

Olivier’s fingers tightened around the armrests of his chair. “ _Your words will be considered. You will learn of our decision when the time comes_.”

Arden nodded. “ _May the river run wide before you_.”

Careful to avoid meeting Félix’s eyes, he bowed a second time before making for the double doors of the hall. The attending guardsmen opened them as he approached, and he found himself standing in the corridor once more. He let out a long, shaky breath as the doors swung shut, finally letting out the trepidation and nerves that had wavered at the back of his mind throughout his speech.

Casting a final glance at the fresco of the river Ashaia, Arden straightened his tunic and began the walk back to the docks. He had done all he could, and delivered his argument with aplomb. Now it was up to the alliance – and fledgling friendship – he had formed with the Commodore to finish what he had started. In the meantime, all that was left for him to do was wait.

…

Niko and Jonah spent the better part of the morning exploring the city, following the directions Ehrin had given them to navigate the market. Niko had felt uneasy upon hearing that she left the ship against Callum’s wishes, but it wasn’t the first (nor the last) time he’d seen her do so, and figured she knew how to take care of herself. He’d been glad enough she wasn’t hanging around the Commodore anymore that he hadn’t asked too many questions.

After a morning of wandering through the stalls, they made for the pavilion with a mind to watch the arms contests. Still in the early rounds, Niko had been glad to see that not all Westernese fought the way the Commodore did, but the skill of the men in the ring was still apparent. As the Commodore had implied, each state put forth their finest warriors in a competition that was meant to be intimidating as much as it was sporting, and Niko wondered how any sort of peace could come out of such explicit threats.

He and Jonah had spent a fine few minutes wandering from ring to ring, comparing the fighting styles of the different states and types of military, trying to figure out who was from where. It wasn’t long before Jonah started to compare all the men they saw to the Commodore, extolling the man’s swordsmanship. Niko still had a difficult time reconciling any of the man’s positive attributes with the violence that had befallen the isles, and extricated himself from the conversation by volunteering to grab a bite for both of them.

That’s how he found himself laughing helplessly with a street vendor as the man and his son tried to explain the contents of their wares to him.

There were three different options, he saw, each cooked in a big green leaf over hot coals. When he tried to query the contents of the leaves, the man had responded in what Niko assumed were several different dialects. Niko had picked up the barest few words in Belenese off of Ehrin – _please, thank you, hello, goodbye, how much –_ but none of those served him very well. After a few moments of confusion he had given up and started speaking Oceanic, hoping that his tone would convey his meaning, but the street vendor had only become more confused as a result. The exchange led him to finally understand what the problem was, however, and the game of charades commenced.

“Oh Gods,” Niko said between fits of laughter as the man wiggled around inside the stall, “you eat _snake_ in your country? That’s vile!” He shook his head, pointing to the small stack of grilled options. “ _No. Thank you_.”

The man understood what he meant to say and moved onto the second option, frowning as he tapped his finger against his lips. From beside him his son – a man of about Niko’s age – began flapping his arms around, bobbing his head. Niko and the vendor met one another’s eyes before bursting into renewed fits of laughter. The young man bobbed and flapped his way around the stall, a big smile on his face. Niko belatedly realized that their antics had begun to draw a crowd.

“Some kind of bird, then, aye? Not a chicken, I assume, from the way you’re walking.”

The son couldn’t have known was he was saying, so the theatrical ‘ _caw!’_ he let out was no more than good comedic timing.

Niko’s next reply dissolved into hiccupping laughter. He faced the vendor, choking out, “ _Please, how much_?”

The vendor said something in his own dialect, shrugging his shoulders as though to say, ‘ _Which one are you talking about_?’ From the smile the man wore, Niko knew that fun was being had at his expense. With a shrug and a sigh, he flapped his arms a few times, doing his best to mimic the bird call the vendor’s son had made. The crowd’s laughter swelled around him; the vendor’s son slapped him on the back in a show of approval for his good-natured play.

The vendor smiled wide, holding up a leaf-wrapped parcel from the second pile. Niko, wiping tears of mirth from his cheeks, held up two fingers. “ _How much_?” he asked.

The man held up four fingers, and Niko scraped the money out of his pocket to hand over. He received the food in return, and was already tucking it into his pack when the son stepped up to him, extending his arm to clasp. Niko gladly submitted to it, expecting the answering slap on the back that was so common in the West.

“ _River run before you_ ,” he managed. From the twitch of the man’s lips, he figured that he had mangled the pronunciation, but it seemed that his meaning had been understood, for the man responded in kind.

Niko made to turn away but hesitated, gesturing back at the vendor and his son. “Belen?” he asked.

The son wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. “ _Januz_.”

“Oh,” Niko said, trying not to let his surprise show on his face, “not what I expected. Alright, then.” He gestured at his bag, pressing his palms together. “ _Thank you_.”

The man smiled again, thumping his fist to his chest before turning to his next customer.

Niko picked his way back through the pavilion towards the ring where he and Jonah had been watching the matches. He wove through the Westernese, trying for once not to pay attention to their strange clothing, their short-cropped hair, or their funny dialects in favor of studying their faces. Here and there was evidence of Dramor’s influence in the isles: men with pale skin and dark hair like Félix. For the most part, though, all he saw was shades of brown, just like Oceana and its isles. None had fair hair like Oceanic Northerners, but that difference aside, the features of those surrounding him wouldn’t have been out of place on Lyre, Kilcoran, or the Midland coast. It was a strange thought, strange enough that he didn’t know what conclusion he should draw from it.

His thoughts were so occupied that Jonah’s arm was slung about his shoulders before he even saw the man approach. “Right, Nik – what have you brought us?” he asked, steering Niko towards the makeshift fence built around the ring.

“Some kind of bird,” Niko said, digging through his pack and leaving his contemplations aside for later.

“Some kind of bird?” Jonah repeated.

“I’d have liked to see _you_ try to ask the vendor what’s in these,” he grumbled, handing Jonah his portion.

Before them, one of the men in the rink fell to his knees, lowering his head and offering his weapon in a show of defeat. Jonah let out a whoop of victory, punching the air with his free hand. Niko felt his brows climb up his forehead as Jonah turned to the men standing on either side of them.

“Alright lads, that was my pick. Pay up!” He added a smattering of words that Niko didn’t understand, holding out his free hand.

The two men to their left good-natured slaps on Jonah’s back before passing a few coins his way. The one on their right rolled his eyes in a show of annoyance as he passed his own coin off. As the next competitors took the field, Jonah bowed his head to Niko. “Now I say we go for the one with the red trousers, and not just because he’s Belenese but because I saw him warming up before and he’s a beast with a cutlass – must be a navy man.”

Niko opened and shut his mouth. “What?”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Lads!” he turned to the men on either side of him, gesturing towards the ring and spitting out a handful of awkward, poorly-pronounced words. The man to their right declined with a shake of his head, but the two men on their left took Jonah up on the bet, clasping arms with him and offering a slap on the back – one which Jonah happily returned.

“You’re already betting with them?” Niko asked as Jonah tucked away his winnings and began unwrapping his lunch.

“Yeh, I’ve got five coins riding on red-pants right now.” He took a big bite, letting out a happy noise. “Well done, Niko – I couldn’t tell you what’s in this, but it’s good alright.”

“Are they Belenese? Did Ehrin tell you how to do this?” Niko pressed.

“Nah, these lads were kind enough to teach me a couple of things so I could follow what’s going on. Having picked up two or three words of one of their dialects – Fángon knows which – I figured it’d be a waste not to put it to use.”

“You are ridiculous,” Niko shook his head as the man with the red trousers disarmed his opponent.

“And getting wealthier by the minute,” Jonah grinned around a mouthful of food. “That’ll be five more coins, boys – _please_ and _thank you_.”


	15. Chapter 15

_The Season of Renewal  
Illád the 20; 2422_

Ehrin watched the dancing, taking a sip of from the odd-tasting brew that Arden had brought her. She wished she could join the couples twirling around the pavilion where a hodgepodge of musicians played traditional tunes. Aside from not knowing any of the steps, however, the suggestion of finding a dance partner had made her father look at her cross-eyed. She had decided it wasn’t worth the argument, and elected to spend the evening perched upon the low stone wall where the rest of her crew was sitting.

“How do you like it?”

Ehrin turned away from the dancing with a smile. “It’s good, if a bit strange.”

“I think it’s some kind of fortified wine, but whatever it’s made from doesn’t grow in Oceana. I couldn’t translate everything the man was saying,” Arden admitted. “I figured it for a manageable risk, to try something new.”

“We’ve been doing that a lot this past week.”

Arden smiled. “To adventure,” he said, raising his cup.

“And a successful trip to the West,” she added, clinking their cups together.

“Let’s hope. Our welcome has been hospitable enough, though I couldn’t say whether or not that has any bearing on the decision the tribal council will make.” Arden paused, squinting at the knot of musicians in the center of the pavilion. “Is that Jonah?”

Ehrin smiled. “Yeh, he’s up there with his fiddle. They’ve got similar instruments, here, and made a big fuss when he played back some of their tunes for them.”

“It seems he’s been making friends.”

“When has Jonah ever failed to charm his way into a good time?”

“Perhaps I should have sent him to council in my stead,” he laughed, taking a sip from his cup.

“Any news on that front?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Not yet; the concluding argument is set for the day after tomorrow.”

“You’ve heard from Félix?” She didn’t miss the considering look he leveled her way.

“He’s busy with his family; I’ve only received two messages from him in as many days.”

“He must be glad to see them.”

“That was my impression, though I suspect his motives are political as well as personal.”

Ehrin swirled the dark liquid around in the bottom of her cup, wrinkling her nose at its aroma. “Do you think he’s trying to convince them to sign the treaty?”

“I hope so. I hope he’s being prudent about it. With any luck we’ll have intrigued the Madestan states enough that they’ll want to hear more from me on the matter. From your query I take it you haven’t seen much of him, either.”

“Not since you departed when we first made port, no.” She must have done a poor job masking her disappointment, because his features softened at her words, eyes fixed on a point beyond her right shoulder.

“We’ll be parting ways with him after this. You know that. It’s why your father and I cautioned you against—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “Can we not talk about this? Please?”

“Ehrin—”

“As you said, he’s busy with his family and I’m unlikely to see much of him before our departure. I don’t see the need to beat the matter to death.”

Arden shook his head, resigned, still looking beyond her shoulder. “Be careful.” He gestured past her with his cup.

She turned, following his gaze, and realized why he had tried to have words with her on the subject. Félix’s tall frame was easy to pick out, standing a half a head above most of the assembled crowd. Her fingers tightened around her cup as she drank in the sight of him, noting all of the changes the past week had brought.

With _Windjammer_ ’s first encounter with the _Madesta_ no more than a distant memory, Ehrin had forgotten the fine figure he cut in the deep crimson of his House. He wore what she assumed to be Belenese formalwear: a silk tunic that hung down to his flank, loose beneath his arms and tight around his waist. A studded belt was slung low around his hips, ornate buckle made in the shape of the armored riverfish that sat on his family’s crest. His armament was fine as well, pieces that must have cost no small amount to commission. Yet beneath that his attire was simple: the legging-like trousers and sturdy boots preferred by sailors the world around.

It took her a long moment to realize that he was headed towards them, and another heartbeat still to realize that his eyes were fixed upon her. She took a steadying breath, pulling her eyes up from the deep vee of his collar. _Stop staring, he’s here to see Jack_ , she scolded herself. Despite knowing that was the case, she still felt a traitorous pang in her breast when Félix stopped before Arden to exchange pleasantries.

“How goes it?” Arden asked, extending his arm to clasp.

“Well enough.” Félix stepped forward, favoring Arden with a hearty thump on the back. “ _I’m working my way back into my brother’s good graces_.”

“For that very reason, I hadn’t thought we’d be seeing much of you during the festival.”

“It was not what I planned. I saw you across the square,” he said, eyes sliding sideways to regard Ehrin, “and now here I am.”

Arden shrugged. “I hope it doesn’t make trouble for you.”

“I suspect I am in enough trouble already that this should not matter much.” His accent had grown more pronounced from time spent with his countrymen. Ehrin hadn’t realized how much she had missed hearing it. “ _You look surprised, my little warrior. Does my appearance surpass your expectations_?”

Ehrin nearly choked on her wine. “You clean up alright, Félix,” she said.

They all looked up at the sound of Arden’s name being called. Several paces away, Lars and Niko were standing with two Madestan men. From the look on the Madestans’ faces, some misunderstanding must have occurred, demanding Arden’s interpretation to resolve. Turning back in Ehrin’s direction, Arden leveled her with another significant look before excusing himself and heading Lars’ way.

Ehrin felt a traitorous frisson of pleasure steal through her once she was the subject of Félix’s undivided attention. “How’ve you been, then? Enjoying time with your family?” she asked, grasping for small talk.

“My father and brother were more lenient than expected. My brother may not yet trust my motives, but at least he does not consider me a threat,” he replied, moving to perch next to her on the wide stone railing. He was close enough that their elbows brushed.

“Better than the alternative.”

“Hm,” he agreed, pulling a face. “And you?”

She glanced up, meeting his eyes. “What have I been up to, you mean?”

His hand came up, fingertips brushing her shawl back to show her temple, her ear, the side of her neck. “ _I see you’ve been to the market._ ”

She sucked in a breath. “Don’t tell my Da that; he thinks I had one of the boys pick it up for me.”

“ _You must be careful_ ,” he warned.

“You and my Da both – so worried when I’ve never given you any cause to think I can’t get around on my own,” she said, fighting against the hammering in her chest at his close proximity. He was well inside her space, fingers still toying with the edge of her shawl, head bent next to hers.

“ _Your father is right, to want to protect that which is precious_.”

Her breath caught at the words, though she wasn’t certain that he had implied what she thought she had heard. Had she mistranslated? Did he mean to speak about how precious a daughter is to a father, or—

“ _Be careful_ ,” he implored, fingertips ghosting across her cheek before he dropped his hand.

He must have heard the approaching footsteps, for he had scooted away from her by the time Arden rejoined them. Ehrin swallowed hard, willing away the heat in her cheeks.

“You’ve not got cause to worry,” she said, finally finding her voice once more. “They don’t know me for a foreigner until I open my mouth. I’m not fair like some of the boys.”

Arden made a face. “And lucky you are: I’ve had three separate people come up to me and touch my hair in the street today. I’ve never been manhandled by so many strangers before.”

“Congratulations, Jack – now you know what it’s like to be a girl,” Ehrin muttered.

“ _That hasn’t happened to you here, has it_?” Félix asked her, a dangerous set to his brow.

“Nah, we’ve stayed well away from the taverns, and that’s the only place I’ll really have to be on my toes. Besides, as I said, I blend in here. I hadn’t expected to, what with you being so fair and all. I thought your people would look like you – short hair and clean-shaven chins aside.”

“ _I am of mixed blood. My mother and father are both Belenese, but two of my grandparents were Dramorian. It was once common for ruling families to show allegiance by taking Dramorian brides._ ”

“Not anymore?” Arden asked.

“ _Not since my father was a young man, and the first whispers of a free Madesta were spoken. Now the practice is rare._ ”

“I assume that this practice, common among the ruling families, was _only_ common among the ruling families,” Arden said. “It seemed no coincidence to me that most of the men in the chamber the other day had far fairer skin than the average Madestan.”

“ _Coincidence it was not; there has always been a strong correlation between Dramorian ancestry and caste in the West._ ”

“Does that cause trouble for the ruling classes?” Arden asked.

 _“Some, yes. It’s easing now that the times have begun to change, but change is slow. When I was a young man it was still fashionable for women to powder their faces and keep away from the sunlight._ ”

“I assume you weren’t fond of such a practice.”

“ _It repulsed me. At the time I was one of the first to speak out against allowing our bloodlines to be polluted by Dramor. Fashion is no longer as blatant as it was, but my countrymen still make assumptions when they look upon me – even when I’m not wearing my brother’s insignia. They know that I have Dramorian blood in me, and they know me to have status as a result_.”

“What about what you see?” Ehrin asked. “Did you think us all commoners upon first sight?”

Ehrin could tell that Félix was surprised by her question. He cocked his head to the side as he contemplated his response. “ _When I recall the moments following the battle, I think upon sigil that your Regent wore; I knew him for a Prince of Oceana before he introduced himself._ ” He turned to Arden. “ _I was surprised to learn that you were his subordinate_ ,” he admitted. “ _He is dark. Circumstances would make such a thing rare in Madesta. Does he share features with his brother the King_?”

“Yeh, he and Siath are of a kind,” Arden replied.

“ _That presents no difficulty for him_?”

“Eramen himself was a Midlander,” Arden shrugged. “Besides, the royal family usually marries outside of the Armathian peninsula for the sake of maintaining provincial loyalty and stability.”

“ _And you, Miss Ehrin?_ ”

“It’s my accent that marks me for an islander. Kilcoran’s a big isle; we’ve many kinds,” she said.

“ _Your population is well mixed_ ,” Félix observed.

“We’ve seen a lot of migration since the first fore-and-aft rigged vessels were built by King Thorand’s shipwrights some three hundred years past. The son who succeeded him, Rand, undertook a great campaign to solidify sea trade routes that were formerly unnavigable by square-riggers,” Arden said.

“ _They allowed your people to move the long axis of your nation with ease._ ”

“And without bankrupting themselves, yes. I suppose I’d have been more easily placed as Armathian before that, but these days you’re more likely to predict place of birth by accent.”

“ _Even in Anaphe_?” Félix asked.

“Ah, well. Perhaps not: Anaphe’s a mess,” Arden admitted, draining his glass.

“ _That has been my experience as well_.”

“Something else we agree on, it seems.” He toyed with his empty cup, casting a glance at Ehrin’s as though to determine whether she had finished hers as well.

“You going for another round?” she asked.

“Is that a hint?”

She put on her best innocent smile in response.

“All right,” he caved, holding out a hand. “Give up your cup, then. Félix?” Noticing the Commodore’s hesitation, he added, “Next round’s on you, of course.”

With a terse nod, he accepted Arden’s offer.

It was becoming a habit.

…

“ _What troubles you_?”

Félix frowned, shutting the book he had made a poor effort of focusing on for the past hour. “ _Am I so transparent, father_?”

A shadow of a smile passed across Laszlo’s features. “ _I’ve known you since you were a babe in arms. You will always be transparent to me_.” He leaned forward in his chair. “ _Will you tell me of your troubles_?”

Félix’s frown deepened. “ _I wouldn’t want my troubles to become yours._ ”

“ _Yet a burden shared is a burden halved_.”

The old adage made him sigh in a combination of annoyance and fondness. “ _I suspect that my burden is one that multiplies rather than one that divides._ ”

“ _You know I hate metaphor, Félix_.”

A smile pulled a Félix’s lips. “ _Apologies_.”

A heartbeat of silence passed before his father spoke again. “ _I hope you aren’t worried about the council. The work you have devoted yourself to is all but said and done_.” Félix’s silence must have been telling. “ _Others may attempt to credit themselves for it, but we know the truth of it. You have fought long and hard for this. You forged the alliance that brought us here_.”

Félix flinched. “ _I know_.”

His father’s sharp eyes raked over his features. “ _Then what aren’t you telling me? Has your time in the East cast doubt upon your duty_?”

Félix bristled. “ _I will always fight for a free Madesta_.”

“ _Good_ ,” his father said as he added,

“ _Only—_ ” he broke off. “ _I worry that the alliance I have forged was the wrong one_.”

“ _By the river,_ ” Laszlo murmured, “ _your brother was right – you *do* support that proposal. What did they do to you, boy_?”

“ _If I am to tell you this_ ,” he said, voice shaky to his own ears, “ _then you must let me speak my mind without interrupting to pass judgment._ ”

Laszlo frowned. “ _If that is your demand_.”

Félix took a breath. “ _After the_ Madesta _was taken and my men left on Kythria to be ransomed, I began to plan my escape. Zathár was in my head at times, as I’ve told you, and he assured me that escape was possible. The vessel that held me was not a navy vessel, and I was pleased by that; I thought my jailors would be easy to overpower. I did not anticipate that the only Oceanic who would come within arm’s reach would be a woman_.”

“ _A woman on a mercenary vessel_?” Laszlo asked, taken aback. “ _One of their wives_?”

“ _The Captain’s daughter_.” He bristled at his father’s incredulous laughter. “ _She earned her place. It was she who held my keys. Zathár ordered me to go through her in order to free myself. This angered me, for I had already told him that I would not lay a finger on a woman or a child_.”

His father nodded his approval. “ _Your mother will be glad to know that you kept to your code_.”

“ _A code that Zathár ceased to honor when it was no longer convenient for him. He was furious when I refused to do her harm, and showed me visions of Belen burning_.”

“ _Is this girl the reason you wish to turn from this alliance_?” Laszlo asked.

“ _No; but she illustrates the duplicity Zathár began to show me months ago_.”

“ _Then you care only for your moral code and the letter of your agreements – and not at all for the girl_?” Laszlo asked, a knowing lilt to his voice.

“ _I know where my priorities lie. I am fighting for Madesta, not for Oceana or any of its citizens_.”

“ _You didn’t answer my question_.”

Félix’s fingers tightened around the corners of the book that sat in his lap. “ _She brought me my meals and broke bread with me. It would be a lie to tell you I never spoke with her. She showed me much mercy_.”

“ _And that, right there, is why we don’t have women on board our vessels: the soft, womanish treatment of a captive_ ,” his father snorted.

“ _Hm. You say that, yet I cannot pretend I am not grateful for it._ ” He picked at the leather binding as he spoke. “ _Between the events in the isles, my interrogation, and the testimony of my men, the Steward and his master worked out the motives behind the invasion. They are not stupid men, and are capable of much besides the displays of power of which you have heard. They realized that they could use my ransom to barter for a spot in our council_.”

“ _An impulse that I still don’t understand_ ,” Laszlo admitted.

“ _In this they are not duplicitous. They wish to have us as an ally against Zathár_.”

Laszlo shook his head. “ _Why should we submit to such a thing, when you have already put so much into forging the alliance we already have?_ ”

“ _Because I was wrong. I have made a convincing argument to our people, but I have led us astray. I bade us fight for the wrong side, and now that events have been set in motion, I do not know how to stop them_.”

“ _What is this nonsense, fighting for the wrong side? We go to war to free our people, to create our nation_ —”

“ _Our men are marching on Oceanic territory_ ,” Félix cut him off. “ _This is not only about the freedom of our people_.”

“ _The favor we do is one that will buy us our freedom, as you have said to me countless times. What has changed you, son? Not this Oceanic woman? Not the diplomat you arrived with?_ ”

“ _They made me question what I thought I knew. Oceana is not what Dramor or Zathár would have us believe_.” He looked up from the book, meeting his father’s eyes. “ _Despite that, I did not think them any more worthy of alliance than Zathár until we passed west of Belen. The Steward took me ashore to inspect the ruins of a fishing village._ ”

“ _He took you ashore_?” Laszlo’s brows were at his hairline.

“ _Chained, in case we ran into Belenese forces_.”

“ _Your brother has ordered no such raids on the border_ ,” Laszlo said.

“ _Even if he had, he wouldn’t have ordered his own people slaughtered. Some of the men wore the armored riverfish upon their breasts_.”

Laszlo leaned forward, a dangerous lilt to his voice. “ _Who did this? Who would commit this act of war_?”

“ _This was no act of war_ ,” Félix replied. The memory was still raw in his mind. “ _This was an act of brutality. Our people were the victims of vicious bloodlust. Zathár set his armies loose upon our people to quench their thirst. It was like nothing I had ever seen before_.”

“ _To quench their thirst_?” Laszlo’s discomfiture was obvious. “ _Speak plain, son_.”

“ _His armies are not armies of men. They are man-like creatures, but they are violent and vicious as few men are. They did not feel pain until they fell upon the sword. Their eyes were vacant, empty like those of their commander_.”

“ _I have heard that he haunts those who have seen him_.”

Félix looked up sharply. “ _Others have had visions of Zathár_?”

“ _In the past months, yes. It was one of the reasons we thought you had fallen. Now I see you have only fallen to the other side_ ,” Laszlo replied.

“ _Father – these creatures were his to command and he set them upon one of our villages. The Steward said they were returned from the ‘locker’, and that I know not if I believe, but – I could see it. I could see that they were once men, and that they are no more, though I could not tell you how. All I know is that they were responsible for the slaughter of our people. What kind of an alliance have I forged for us, if our ally will send his armies to prey upon our coastal towns with impunity_?” Félix demanded.

His father jaw worked without sound for a long moment. “ _Have you spoken to your brother about this_?”

“ _No. I know not what to say_ ,” Félix admitted.

“ _I will report it to him. He won’t like what he hears. He may question your honesty_.”

“ _He can question it all he wants_ ,” Félix growled. “ _These are the events as they happened. I know that I have been played for a fool. I know it will cost us. I—”_ he broke off, voice choked. “ _I know what I have fought for, and what I have done. This creature and his armies have already done much damage on our soil, and for what? Any champion of such violence against innocents cannot be a creature with any honor. Who’s to say that he will not withhold his promise to Madesta once we have fulfilled our end_?”

Laszlo’s expression was troubled, eyes shuttered. “ _That is why you have turned to Oceana – because you think that they are more likely to fulfill their promise._ ”

“ _At least they have something to gain from it. This demon, as they call him – he has power beyond what you can imagine. What need does he have of us, except as pawns_?”

“ _And would Oceana not play us the very same way_?” Laszlo arched a brow.

“ _No_ ,” Félix said, “ _not the very same way. Not with such horror_.”

Laszlo shook his head. “ _I know what it costs you to admit this to me – that you think yourself in the wrong, and your fight in vain_.” He paused. “ _I don’t know what to believe. All I know is this: your brother will not be pleased if you take this argument before the council in Oceana’s name_.”

“ _And what, argue for those abominations instead_?”

Laszlo laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “ _You will put yourself in grave danger. The other tribes are ready to throw their lot in with Zathár. They think his power worthy of admiration and allegiance_.”

Félix felt as though a stone was sinking in his stomach. If his father was right – and his father, warrior though he was, had always been an admirable politician – no argument would be enough to sway the heads of state in his favor. He swallowed, resting his eyes back upon the book in his lap. “ _I am no blind follower of power. I will do what is right for Belen and Madesta. Alliance with Zathár will bring sorrow to our people. I will not abide it_.”

Laszlo stood, hand dropping from Félix’s shoulder. “ _I know that look; my words stand little chance of swaying you. I only ask, as a father asks a son, that you think on what I have said._ ” He gestured across the courtyard where a handful of Oktánian dignitaries were visiting with Olivier. “ _I would hate to see you throw all of this away_.”

“ _Yes, father_ ,” he said, the words feeling wrong in his mouth.

With a final pat to his back, his father left him to his thoughts.

…

“ _Hello Félix_.”

Félix felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up at the sound of that thick Januzian accent – one that colored a voice he knew far too well. He had been prepared for their paths to cross, knowing such an altercation was inevitable, ever since his return to Zaránd. He had, however, grown slack over the past week. Having not seen the man except at a distance, he had begun to hope that perhaps this confrontation would not come to pass—

“ _I heard you spent some time in an Oceanic brig_.” The distance between them had collapsed; the voice came from just behind his left ear. “ _They’re soft, the Oceanic. Too bad_.”

Félix swallowed, squaring his shoulders before turning to meet the man head-on. It took no small effort to raise his eyes to the Captain’s. He took a breath, fighting against the sensation of being starved of air, tried to slow the pounding of his heart, tried to cease the trembling of his fists.

“ _What do you want_?” he asked.

The smile that greeted him was chilling in its familiarity. “ _Just catching up with an old acquaintance, can’t I?_ ”

The man’s smile broadened, and Félix fought a shiver. It wasn’t as though there was anything wrong with the Captain’s face – he was of average build, with average features, average, all – but there was something about the expression he wore when amused, something off about his smile, which betrayed him for what he was.

“ _Acquaintance_ ,” Félix sneered. “ _That’s a generous use of the word_.”

“ _I’ve always been generous in my application of things, as you should remember_.”

Félix’s scowl deepened. The Captain spoke the truth; Félix had encountered his so-called generosity when strapped to the board in a cell in Januz nearly fifteen years past. He took a breath, forcing the memories that tugged at his mind out of his thoughts. He refused to succumb to them in front of this man.

“ _I have better things to do than stand here all day and sing your praises_ ,” he said, letting some of his deep hatred of the man seep into his words.

“ _You’re a busy man, Félix – hard to track down. I saw you in the pavilion the other night, watching the performances. I almost came over to say hello then, but – you were with company_.”

Félix knew from the long interrogations he had suffered at this man’s hands that he never brought up irrelevant details. His mind raced, thinking back to the night in the pavilion. He had spent the evening with _Windjammer_ ’s crew – mostly with Ehrin. The deduction must have shown on his face, because as soon as he made the connection the Januzian smiled in a way that made his blood run cold.

“ _I didn’t know you had a thing for foreign women, but you know what they say: no accounting for taste_.” The Captain shrugged. “ _I’ll admit it caught me off guard at first, but I figured that for all the history we have, I might give you the benefit of the doubt._ ”

“ _How kind of you_ ,” Félix snapped, fighting to prevent his near-panic from showing.

“ _You’ll be happy to know that I’ve come to see things from your angle. She’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? I was surprised to hear her speak your tongue in the market today. Did she learn it from you when you were in chains_?”

Félix swallowed hard. “ _What concern is it of yours_?”

“ _I only mean to pay a compliment. You picked a friendly one, if the time I spent with her was any indication_.”

Felix’s hand was around the man’s throat in a flash. He felt the point of a blade prodding at his back and ignored it; he had known the man wouldn’t travel anywhere without his cohort.  “ _If you laid a hand on her, I will flay you alive and feed your skin to the dogs_.”

The Januzian’s lips pulled into a too-wide smile. “ _Why the concern? We’re already at war with Oceana. She’ll end up on the board soon enough_.”

His choice of words gave Félix some small measure of relief; speaking of her as such meant that the worst had not come to pass. Still, his heart raced and hands shook with the desire to run, to find her, to finally tear the Januzian Captain limb-from-limb. With another deep breath he forced himself to release the man’s throat, spinning away once the sharp point of a blade was no longer at his back.

“ _Off so soon_?” the Januzian asked as he turned towards the street. “ _Be sure to give her my regards, then._ ”

He ignored those words and any that followed, continuing to push down the near-panic that clawed its way up the back of his throat. Endless possibilities of what the man could have said and done to her flew through his mind on loop; he saw red at the very thought that harm could have come to her at that man’s hands. He brushed off the greetings of all those he passed as he flew through the streets, not stopping for breath until he was within sight of _Windjammer_ ’s two masts.

Félix took a moment to calm himself as he reached the dock slip. He could smell the warm aroma of spice cakes in the oven: a sure sign that Ehrin was aboard and well enough to perform her duties. Still, he knew he couldn’t rest until he laid eyes on her. He boarded _Windjammer_ in two long strides, coming face-to-face with the Kilcoranian fiddler who startled from his post on the midships housetop. Before the man could get a word out, Félix was down the companionway and standing before the galley where Ehrin was working, humming to herself as she kneaded dough.

She jumped when she saw him. He could only imagine the picture he presented, red-faced and wild-eyed, panting with exertion from running half the length of the city.

“Félix,” she said, “what are you—”

“ _You were at the market today_.”

She wrinkled her brow. “Well, yeh. The boys liked the stew I made for them, so—”

“ _You went alone_.”

“Do I even want to know how you found this out?” she asked. “You sound like my father.”

“ _Perhaps your father has a point_.”

Her hands froze mid-knead. She turned to regard him for a long moment. “What’s going on, Félix? You look like you just ran to the locker and back.”

“ _You met a man in the market today. A Januzian. You spoke to him in my dialect_.”

She frowned. “I spoke to a lot of people at the market today.”

Félix’s hands clenched with rage; the galley countertop creaked beneath his fingers. “ _You know who I’m talking about – you cannot possibly have met this man and thought he posed no threat to you. Or did you? Are you so naïve that you don’t even realize that being a foreigner makes you a target? Do you not realize that association with *me* makes you a target_?”

The words spilled from his lips in a torrent. From the expression on her face he knew that she couldn’t possibly have understood everything he said, but gathered enough of the sentiment to grow upset in turn.

“What in Fángon’s name is wrong with you?” she hissed, wiping her hands off on her apron. She pushed the divider between the companionway and galley up out of the way, forcing him to let go of the countertop to meet her face-to-face.

“ _The Januzian. You know who I am talking about_.”

“Yeh, Félix, I do. He was a little off, alright? Have anything else you want to interrogate me over?”

He took a step forward. This close, he towered over her. “ _Do you have any idea who that was_?”

Her next reply came through gritted teeth, and he couldn’t understand some of the words she used – Oceanic still did not come easy to him. He knew enough to hear the message, though – ‘ _what does it matter_?’ – and the very fact that she was getting angry at him only served to further stoke his ire.

“ _It matters because that man would kill you to spite me_.”

“What?”

He knew that she understood him but repeated himself anyway, emphasizing each word. “ _That man would kill you to spite me_.” She was silent, but he could tell that she was processing his words. He saw her face twist the moment it clicked in her mind, and she realized _who_ she had been speaking to in the market. “ _That man was toying with you, gathering information about you. He could have_ —” Félix broke off, unable to finish his sentence.

“I’ll not make the mistake of going near him a second time, then. Does that satisfy you?”

“ _No. There are more out there. Not like him, perhaps, but more who would see you harmed_.”

Ehrin made an incredulous noise. “What do you want, for me to stay here and not leave without an escort, hemmed in like one of your noblewomen?”

“ _I ask only that you not make mistakes of the kind that you made today: mistakes that are as stupid as they are fatal_.”

Her nostrils flared. “Must you be such an arse?”

Félix wasn’t ignorant of the fact that he had insulted her and wounded her pride, but he had never been the sort to use gentle words to prove a point. “ _You have shown yourself to be too trusting. You have put yourself and your crew in danger_.”

She pressed forward towards him, standing up on the tips of her toes to negate as much of his height advantage as she could. “D’you think I’d have gone down easy, if he had turned on me? Do you think me so weak?” she demanded.

“Weak? _Is that what you heard_?”

“You insulted me—”

“ _I called you naïve – and that is what you are if you think that falling at such a man’s hands is only the fate of the weak._ ” He paused, voice dropping to a murmur. “ _Or do you think me weak as well, for having succumbed to him_?”

Her eyes went wide at that. “No,” she insisted, “I would never call you weak – not for that.”

“Nor do I say that of you,” he said, switching back to Oceanic. His hand came up to frame the side of her face. “Do you see? I cannot stand the thought of harm coming to you. I would not forgive myself. You must take care, if only for my sake.”

She swallowed. “I’m a sailor just the same as you are. I couldn’t call myself that if I cowered from the merest possibility of danger.”

“You know your own strength. In battle, you do not choose opponents that fight beyond your level: so do not do so on land, either.”

She didn’t think the same way that he did: he knew this. She didn’t see every stranger on the street as a potential adversary, didn’t anticipate catastrophe at every turn. He did. It was habit, for him – because he had long been at war, because he couldn’t find comfort even at home with his brother without having to watch his back. Complacency could kill, especially in a foreign port. He knew that she understood what he meant to say. He knew that she had seen his argument for a good one.

“You know I am right,” he said, dropping his hands.

She pressed her lips together. “You throw names at me again and it’ll be the last time you get to call me anything.”

He held her stare. “Understood.”

She went quiet for a long time, looking down at her apron, twisting its fabric between her hands. When her eyes rose back up to meet his they were soft, tentative. “The Januzian. Was he really the one who—”

“Yes.”

“And he came up to you in the street?”

“To tell me that he had spoken to you, and found you very pretty.”

Her mouth works soundlessly for a moment. “You thought he—“

“At first, yes. When my wits returned to me I realized that he was playing with me, but – I am not sharp of mind when I am near him. I am reminded of that time. You have seen what it does to me.”

“Is it past?” she asked, laying a hand on his arm.

He felt her fingers pressing into his forearm, a welcome gesture of comfort. “I think so, yes. This time I felt only anger.”

Her lips pulled up at the corners. “Yeh, I noticed.” She stared into his face, open, frank. “You’re alright?”

He wanted to tell her that he was, to hide any worry or weakness he felt in the wake of his confrontation with the Januzian. He grasped for assurances but found that he was still a little unsteady, and the words wouldn’t come. Just as he began to worry that she would see he was not, in fact, alright, her arms wrapped around his waist and her head tucked into his shoulder. The gesture startled him. He went still for a moment before letting himself accept this comfort, resting his chin atop her head and wrapping his arms around her in turn. He trailed a hand down her back, feeling the strength of her shoulders give way to the narrowness of her waist.

He shut his eyes. He could smell spice cakes and Zarándrian flatbread and Ehrin’s flowery Kilcoranian soap.

He held on tight.

…

“ _You shouldn’t be here_ ,” Félix said, taking Arden by the shoulder and turning him away from the doors to the council chamber.

“ _I couldn’t argue my cause before council, but I won’t absent myself entirely_ ,” he replied. “ _How did it go?_ ”

“Not well.” Félix switched back to Oceanic, herding Arden further down the hallway as the heads of state began to emerge from the chamber.

“They weren’t receptive to our position, then.”

Félix prodded Arden into an alcove where their presence would go unnoticed to those who passed. He ran his hands through his hair, curls sticking up at all angles. “No. They were set against me when the debate began, and I could not sway them to my side.”

It wasn’t for lack of trying. He had lived up to his reputation as a firebrand, putting every ounce of passion he felt for his cause into his argument, stalking the floor before the heads of state as he spoke. He made a brilliant argument, as he was wont to do. The words had poured from him, speech honed and precise, his most important points reinforced with sweeping gestures and the thump of his palm against the table. 

With Ehrin’s good luck coin tucked safely in his pocket he had recounted the story of what he had seen in the coastal town. He spoke of Zathár, of the demon’s ways, of his own blindness and mistakes. Yet instead of curiosity and concern, he was met with open hostility. The other tribes had called his loyalty into question. They thought he had been warped during his time in captivity, and refused to hear his pleas. The men he had once swayed to his side not a year earlier were now firmly set against him, convinced he had gone too far. There was nothing more he could do.

He had tried to look to his father and brother for support as the council moved to dismiss Oceana’s proposal, but neither would meet his eyes.

“Do they realize that they’re choosing to fight for Dramor?” Arden asked, jaw clenched.

“They believe that Zathár will command Dramor to leave us be once they have the Anaphean peninsula under their yoke. It is a trade, for them,” he said. “Others have been in contact with the demon. They will not listen to my word over his.”

“So that’s it, then. We’re through here, and we’re bringing no aid to Anaphe.” Arden let out a mirthless laugh, scrubbing his hands down his face. “Perhaps my brother was right, and this was a ridiculous plan after all.”

“My people are afraid to stand against one as powerful as Zathár. They do not want to believe that he will betray them. Zathár has promised to grant their greatest wish – and more besides. Hope has blinded them.”

“And now I must return to Anaphe empty-handed,” Arden concluded, his tone laced with a desperation that Félix had not heard from him before.

“The city is strong,” he offered.

“Not strong enough.”

Félix bowed his head. “Some of our men have already been sent. They are crossing the mountains with Dramor’s armies as we speak. Even if we had convinced the council—”

“Gods.” Arden turned away, staring blindly at the tapestry hung on the far wall. “I’ve fouled this up something fierce, haven’t I?”

“ _It’s a noble sentiment, to put all of the blame on your own shoulders – but what more could you have done_?”

“I could have listened to my King’s command and gone to Saria instead. I could have stayed in Anaphe and fought at Valory’s side.”

“It is three weeks’ travel to Anaphe. You may yet be able to do so,” Félix pointed out.

Arden turned to meet his eyes. “Do you truly believe that we had no chance to convince the other states to ally with Oceana?”

“At first I thought it possible,” Félix admitted. “I did not know that Zathár had spoken to the others, or that they had embraced the idea of a unified Madesta so well that fighting for Dramor had become an acceptable sacrifice. Perhaps if they had seen the town that we saw, we may have had a leg to stand upon.” He shook his head. “If this offer had come a year ago – even six months ago – things may have been different.”

“Not even Illen’s children can turn back time,” Arden murmured.

“Then there is nothing you or I could have done. Their decision was made before you spoke your first words.”

The sound of a throat clearing alerted them to another’s presence in their alcove. Félix looked up to see one of his brother’s aides and held back a wince; who knew what the boy would report to Olivier – especially after hearing him speak with the Steward in Oceanic.

“ _Our Lord requests your presence in the courtyard, Commodore_ ,” the boy said, casting a nervous glance in Arden’s direction.

“ _Tell him I’m on my way_ ,” he said. The boy hurried to carry out his command.

“More bad news?” Arden asked.

“I don’t doubt it.” He paused. “You should gather your crew and return to your ship. Your immunity has expired. Word of it will take some time to spread, but once it does I will be in no position to protect you.”

Arden nodded. “We were prepared for a quick departure. We’ll shove off mid-morning tomorrow.”

“That is wise.” He extended his arm. “I will try to be at the docks for your departure, but if I cannot, _may the river run wide before you_.”

“Take care, Félix. May the wind be at your back.”

Félix stood in silence for a moment as the Steward strode away, conflicting thoughts and feelings battling within him. He shook off the questions and doubts, determined to make it through this last audience before coming to any conclusions regarding his next plan of action.

Following the aide’s directions, Félix made for the private courtyard that his brother favored for such audiences. It had been many years since his last council but he remembered the way well; the courtyard had been his father’s to use, once, and he and his brothers had sat in on many meetings together in the days before Olivier was named successor.

Olivier was waiting for him, perched upon a chaise in a small, secluded patio. He waved Félix towards the chair that sat opposite him, a stern set to his features.

“ _You made me look like a fool today_ ,” he said without preamble. “ _Father warned me that this might happen, but I couldn’t believe you went through with it. What happened to you_?”

“ _If father spoke to you, then you know what I have seen. It was not Oceana that changed my mind_.”

Olivier shook his head. “ _This is wartime: you of all people know what happens to border settlements when armies muster_.”

“ _Your heard my account. You know that this was no simple act of war_.”

“ _Brother_ ,” Olivier said, voice pained. “ _By your own hand we have prepared for this march. The final pieces have fallen into place at this council. Your dream is about to be realized: one of a unified Madesta. How can we turn back now_?”

“ _My own dream blinded me. We are fighting against our fellow man in the name of a creature that brings nothing but suffering and destruction to our borders. We will regret this decision – mark my words_ ,” he said, palms coming to rest on the table between them.

Olivier cocked his head, shrewd gaze sweeping over him. “ _I know that you are no liar, and no poor judge of men. That is what troubles me._ ”

“ _Then listen to me_ —”

“ _Anaphe is already lost, brother – trust me when I say that. We will only bring grief upon ourselves by standing in the way. Besides, with Dramor pacified, we will be in a better position to reevaluate our alliance with Zathár – especially if what you say is correct._ ”

“ _And you will fight with those *things* in the mean time_?” Félix demanded.

“ _We will see what we will see_.” Olivier shrugged. “ _If you are right, you are not the only one who can change sides, and Oceana will be in no place to quarrel with us over matters of timing_.”

“ _I have not changed sides_ ,” Félix snarled. “ _I am no turncoat_.”

“ _If I had thought you were, I’d have hung you myself. It would have saved the council the trouble; they’ve put a notice out on your head._ ”

“ _Then why haven’t you ordered me clapped in irons already_?”

Olivier met his stare, nostrils flaring. “ _I had thought such measures wasteful, but you are tempting my resolve_.”

“ _And yet here we are, chatting. Who knew you had become such a diplomat?_ ”

Olivier’s hands tightened into fists. “ _I would rather not hang a second brother. Call it sentimentality if you will, but I have come to see that there are other methods of dealing with dissent – at least, with dissent that arises from my nearest kin_.”

“ _I would never accuse you of sentimentality_.”

“ _Then don’t give me cause to admit it. Make yourself scarce_.”

“ _Ah_ ,” Félix said, baring his teeth in a smile. “ _If not death, then banishment_.”

“ _The council wants you and your Oceanic strung up on the gallows before your make more trouble. Personally I’d like to see your Oceanic diplomat meet that fate, but I know that you wouldn’t make it past the border without his ship._ ”

“ _Why warn me of this? You’re aiding an escape. That’s not like you_.”

Olivier fixed his eyes on a point past Félix’s shoulder. “ _I made a mistake those years ago. I went after a man who hadn’t yet struck the first blow because I feared I didn’t have the strength to defend myself. It’s not a mistake I plan on making twice_.”

The bare honesty in his brother’s countenance made something clench in Félix’s chest. He took a breath. “ _I still haven’t forgiven you_.”

“ _I wouldn’t expect you to_.”

Félix stood. “ _I’ll be gone before daybreak_.”

“ _Good_.”

He regarded his brother for a long moment. “ _When you begin your march alongside Zathár and his armies, think about what I have said._ ”

“ _Very well_ ,” he agreed. He pulled Félix in, fist landing in between his shoulder blades. “ _Perhaps we will meet again someday_.”

Félix nodded. “ _Try to explain to mother and father for me, would you_?”

“ _I’ll attempt it_.”

“ _May the river run wide before you, Olivier_.”

“ _And you as well_.”

With those parting words Félix left the courtyard, winding through the corridors until he reached the room where he had been staying. He gathered up what few items he had to his name – all given to him by his brother, or purchased in the market – and exchanged the fine clothing he wore for simpler garb. He nested his finery in amongst the rest of his belongings before strapping on his belt, throwing his pack over his shoulder, and making for the docks.

 _Windjammer_ was dark but for a single lantern lit on the quarterdeck. It served the purpose of preserving the watch’s night vision, and so Félix was unsurprised to find himself at the point of the Ithakan’s cutlass before he made it past the gangway.

“I must speak with your Captain and crew,” he said without preamble, ignoring the scowl that lined the other man’s face.

“What’s yer business?”

“I bring no harm to you,” Félix insisted.

“Niko, stand down.” Arden materialized out of the shadows. “When I told you to hassle anyone who came aboard, you know I didn’t mean the Commodore.” Niko grumbled, sheathing his cutlass with exaggerated reluctance. “What news brings you here, so soon after we last spoke?” he continued, turning back to face Félix.

“Bad news. My brother called upon me to give warning. Throwing in my lot with you at council has me marked as a traitor. What’s more, the other tribes worry that you will bring word of their plans for Anaphe with you when you leave.”

“There’s a plot against us,” Arden surmised.

“My life is forfeit. Olivier did me a kindness and warned me of it. As for _Windjammer_ , they will come for you before the sun rises.”

“Sooner than you had thought.” He eyed the pack that Félix carried, noticing it for the first time. “We can shove off tonight – we’re always prepared for the worst. From the sound of it, though, we’re not the only ones on the run.”

“My brother cannot offer me protection.”

“Cannot, or will not?” Arden raised a brow.

“Cannot,” Félix stressed. “But his motives do not matter: I must leave Madesta.”

“You’re looking to sail with us.”

“I’m looking to fight.” Félix corrected. “I do not ask for transport, I ask to join with you against Zathár.”

The Ithakan grumbled under his breath. Arden hesitated. “If by some miracle Anaphe is still standing when we get there, you do realize that you will be asked to take up arms against your countrymen?”

“I know this.” He switched to his native tongue. “ _I’ll not pretend this is an easy decision. The thought of fighting against another man of Belen is as repugnant as the thought of fighting alongside those creatures. I can’t promise you that I will take the life of one of my countrymen, but I can promise you that I will not leave a single one of those creatures standing in my wake._ ”

“ _And if one of your countrymen comes for you_?” Arden asked.

“ _You have seen what I can do with a cutlass. A killing stroke is not the only way to win a contest of arms_.”

Arden weighed his words before stepping away, moving towards the companionway. “I’ve come to know you well enough to recognize when you’re being sincere. It’s not me you have to convince, however.”

“You can’t be serious, Jack,” Niko hissed, moving to follow him down into the salon, Félix a step behind.

Félix ducked to avoid bumping his head on his way past the galley. The card game between the Kilcoranian and the Sarian paused as soon as he entered the room. Ehrin, who had been sitting at the end of the table, jumped to her feet at the sight of him.

“What’s this, now?” Callum asked, stepping out from the doorway of his cabin.

“With our treaty rejected and our amnesty over, I told all of you that we might see some trouble tonight. It seems I wasn’t wrong,” Arden said. “If we don’t shove off now, we’re going to be up to our ears in it by sunrise.”

“So soon?” Ehrin asked.

“Zathár’s grip on the West was stronger than we anticipated,” Arden admitted. “The price for opposition is a steep one, and we’re not alone in paying it.”

“The council is eager to see me hung,” Félix said.

“Let’s not beat around the bush, lads. Commodore, why are you here?” Callum asked.

“I wish to ask you for a position aboard _Windjammer_.” It was the first time that Félix had seen the entire crew simultaneously stunned silent.

The Sarian recovered first. “What, you mean as a deckhand?” he asked, scratching his head.

“If you will have me. I only ask that you let me fight against those creatures at every opportunity,” he said, meeting Callum’s eyes. “If my countrymen will not allow me to right this wrong I have done, then I will make amends with my own hands.”

“Commodore—” Callum began.

“Not Commodore. Not anymore,” he shook his head. “I am only Félix, now.”

“Félix. This ship isn’t run like a navy vessel; my crew gets a say in decisions like this one. It wasn’t too long ago that you and your men tried to send _Windjammer_ down to the locker. Some of my boys haven’t yet forgotten that.”

“What do you wish me to say?” he asked. “I have given my true apology to each of you in turn. I was wrong and I am eating my mistake, but I cannot turn back time.”

“Do we believe him?” Niko asked, sounding unsure himself.

“I dunno, lads,” Jonah spoke up. “On the one hand he did sic his fleet on Kilcoran. On the other, the one thing we _do_ know is that nothing’s more important to him than his people. So if he’s willing to be banished from his homeland on account of refusing to fight for Zathár anymore, well – I’d say that’s pretty telling.”

“And he’s a damn fine sailor,” Lars added, earning a surprised glance from Félix.

“J—Arden?” Callum prompted.

“I think his motives are true, yeh. Motives aside, leaving him here would be a death sentence,” Arden said. “Besides, we could use another crew member.”

“Ehrin?”

She looked up to see five pairs of knowing eyes trained on her. “Why are you all looking at me? Just another mouth to feed,” she said, unable to hide her smile.

“Niko?”

Niko frowned up at Félix. “I don’t like you,” he said before turning to Callum. “But I guess he’s alright.”

“It’s settled, then,” Callum said, surprising even himself. “I hope you’re ready for a turn up on first watch, lad, because we’ll need you to get us off this dock and around the bend without incident.”

“Yes,” Félix said, “and we will need a head start to put distance between us and the ships they will send in the morning.”

“You think we’ll be pursued?” Ehrin asked.

“I know we will be. It is fortunate that _Windjammer_ can point so high to the wind, but it will be a difficult journey,” Félix said.

“We’ve not got time to waste,” Arden agreed. “Let’s muster on the quarterdeck in five; if you’ve got naught to do before then, start getting her ready to go. Félix, you can drop your things in any of the midships cabins.”

“Think we’ll beat ‘em out to sea, Cap?” Jonah asked.

“So long as you’re looking alive; when we’re sharp this little lady can haul arse,” Callum replied, caressing the wood paneling at his side. “Let’s do this.”

Félix thumped a fist against his chest in hearty agreement. “For Anaphe,” he said.

Arden nodded, swallowing hard. “For Valory.”

A scant half hour later, _Windjammer_ slipped lines in the dead of night.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the spirit of not being able to look at a chapter anymore... here's #16.

_The third waxing month: 20, 3_

Alvar took a puff from his pipe, one eye on the other end of the street where a creature was crouched over one of its victims. They had stopped that morning to permit Zathár’s foot soldiers some time to slake their desires and shed the feverish energy they had built up over the long passage from Arrynmathár. It was fortunate that a suitable town had presented itself as they crossed into the arid lands.

Alvar found the whole thing distasteful – the creatures did not engage in any sort of honorable combat – but they had become so difficult to control in the mountains that he had deemed the stop necessary for the safety of his men. The creatures were servants of his Lord and it was his responsibility to provide for their needs: even if the needs involved the bizarre and, frankly, gruesome slaughter of an entire village.

It wasn’t as though they would have given quarter either way, he mused, taking a final puff of his pipe. Only, Dramorian executions were clean and painless, whereas the creatures seemed to prefer the exact opposite. Alvar had never taken joy from the suffering of commoners, but found that he admired Zathár’s strategy nonetheless; fear was a powerful weapon, and they wielded it without mercy.

The creature at the end of the street finished whatever depravity it was engaged in and advanced in his direction, head swinging as it scouted its next prey. Much to Alvar’s irritation its eyes fixed upon him for a moment, body squaring in his direction.

“ _Do not look upon your Commander with such vile-intent_ ,” he snarled.

The creature pulled up short at his words, cowering and skulking back in the direction from which it came. Alvar let out a derisive snort, tapping the ashes out of his pipe before secreting it away in a pocket beneath his quilted armor. He acted his part, but his discomfort was real. There was nothing for it – the creatures that returned with his Lord from the locker gave him the shivers.

A traitorous part of him knew that he wouldn’t be able to abide them if they weren’t the weapon that would allow him, Alvar son of Garo, to secure Anaphe in Dramor’s name. They were monstrous, yes, but the mere thought that his name would go down in history alongside the greatest of his elders was enough to ease his misgivings. In every way, the campaign seemed to have sprung from beyond even his wildest dreams; who was he to question Zathár’s methods?

Alvar turned back into the tavern where his officers were enjoying a mug of whatever the place had been serving before their arrival. The taste was different enough from what he was accustomed that he had decided not to partake, but didn’t begrudge his men the desire to rest and relax in the aftermath of their strategy meeting. It was a rare thing, these days, to be away from the creatures. He knew he was not alone in his discomfort, but hoped that he hid it as well as his men.

Two of his few Western officers were working the bar, and gestured at a mug in silent query as he approached. Alvar shook his head. The Westernese didn’t offer much up in the way of words – not in broken Dramorian, nor to one another. Alvar knew that tension was high among his few Western fighters, and would remain so until they were joined by their countrymen in Anaphe. It was no easy thing to fight alongside a man you had raised arms against only months earlier.

He shrugged, moving to sit with a handful of his closest advisors. The Westernese were barbarians, all, but they were adequate warriors. Once their navy was rebuilt, it would be a boon to Zathár’s mission in Armathia.

“ _General, sir. No drink_?” One of his men asked, noting that he returned empty-handed.

“ _I don’t have the taste for foreign brews_ ,” Alvar replied.

“ _Perhaps they’ll get less bitter as we move east, sir_.”

“ _And as we do, we’ll encounter enough settlements to get a sampling-taste of what the peninsula has to offer_ ,” another of his men pointed out.

“ _Do we plan on taking all the towns that lie in our path, then, sir_?” the first asked.

Alvar rested his forearms against the edge of the table, studded leather clicking against its worn edge. “ _Our orders are to make haste for Anaphe’s walls. We are not to stop often, but if the creatures demand it, so be it: they must remain easy-passive under our hands until we reach the city_.”

“ _And once we’re in Anaphe, sir_?”

“ _Military men get no quarter. With civilians we must have more care, for some are servants of our Lord. The others, if they surrender and keep their heads down, could prove useful_ ,” Alvar replied.

“ _And the nobility_?”

“ _The Regent will be neutralized by the time we arrive. The rest – the viceroy and her supporters – are mine to interrogate and dispose of_.” There was a soft pressure at the back of his mind, one that told him he had spoken well. Pride flared through him; it was always satisfying when his Lord acknowledged him for good service.

“ _What of them, sir_?” His officer jerked a thumb towards the window, through which they could see a handful of creatures gathered around a body.

“ _We’ll keep them out of the inner city. They would be too much trouble, otherwise_.” He didn’t miss the twin looks of relief that crossed his officers’ faces.

“ _Do you think they’ll submit to that, sir_?”

“ _They will do as I say_. _Besides_ ,” he said, eyes still trained on the scene in the street, “ _I’m sure they’ll find plenty to entertain them outside of its walls_.”

…

_The Season of Renewal  
Illád the 20; 2422_

The loud thump sent Fiona halfway out of her seat. She startled easily these days, head whipping around at every small noise. Malcolm was no different, and she half-expected to see him when she turned: but today it was Lieutenant Imran standing watch at her door, a bored expression on his face.

His lack of concern was accounted for when Fiona came face-to-face with her little sister, who had thrown a stack of books into her sea chest with a resentful frown.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Alma said, emphasizing her point by slamming the lid shut.

“Not you, too,” Fiona sighed, sounding weary even to her own ears.

“You’re sending us away.”

“I am doing no such thing.”

“We’re being put on a vessel full of women and children—”

“Alma.” Fiona reached for her sister’s shoulder, only to have her hand shrugged off. “Are you upset because I’m trying to see you to safety, or are you upset because I’m not going with you?”

Alma looked away, face twisted into a scowl and lower lip trembling. “I don’t want to leave home.”

Fiona felt tears prick her eyes at the sound of her sister’s voice, small and frightened in the face of all that was changing around them. Even if she couldn’t feel her sister’s grief she would have understood; Anaphe was the only home she knew, and as weeks went by without word from their uncle, the Regent and the council had slowly begun to give up hope of defending it.

“Neither do I,” she murmured. “Nor do I want to part from you and Alicia. You know that, don’t you? I’m going to be lonely without you, and worried for you all the while.”

“Then let us stay,” Alma insisted.

Fiona shook her head. “In a week’s time, Anaphe will be under siege – and that’s if we’re fortunate. Even if it wasn’t my greatest wish to keep you and Alicia safe, the Regent has given the order to evacuate all citizens who aren’t a part of the effort to keep Anaphe standing.”

“You want fewer mouths to feed.”

“And fewer loved ones to defend,” she admitted.

“What about you?” Alma asked. “You cannot wield arms.”

“Nor can most of the council.” Fiona reached out to her sister once more, taking Alma’s hands with a sad smile. “I know you’re afraid. I am, too: I’m terrified, to be honest. There’s a part of me that wishes I was going with you, if only because of how much I fear what comes our way. I know that’s not very noble of me – I suppose I wasn’t the best choice for viceroy after all.” She felt her sister bristle with irritation at her words, and hastened to come to her point. “I’m trying to do right by our city, and if that means staying behind, then stay I will.”

“But you’re putting yourself in the same kind of danger you want to save us from,” Alma protested.

“What kind of a viceroy would I be if I asked our fighting men to face Zathár when I myself refused?”

Tears welled in Alma’s eyes, fingers tightening around Fiona’s hard enough to make them ache. “Everyone says that the city will fall. What happens if it falls with you in it? What will you do?”

A sad smile pulled at Fiona’s lips. “Whatever I can to survive, I suppose. I have faith in the Regent and his men. I know they’ll do all that’s in their power to keep those who stay behind safe.”

Alma made a choked noise, throwing her arms around Fiona’s shoulders. “Please don’t make us leave without you,” she said, voice muffled against the robes of their House.

“I’m sorry,” Fiona whispered. She stroked her fingers through her sister’s long hair, adopting a slow, steady rhythm. It was the kind of comfort their mother would have given in her stead, once upon a time.

She willed herself to stay sturdy as Alma sobbed, steeling her heart against the bombardment of her sister’s grief. Alma’s desperate, bottomless sadness came from a single thought that was so powerful Fiona could hear it word for word, wailed in her sister’s voice: _mother, father, now you – Alicia will be all I have left_. _I don’t want to be alone_.

She held Alma tight, keeping her composure as best as she could. It was her duty – to her sisters, to her Regent, to her people – to remain strong, to show no sign of the sick fear that gripped her more and more with every passing day. She shut her eyes and waited, murmuring little words of comfort until Alma’s sobs died down and her shoulders no longer trembled. After a long moment of silence Alma pulled away from their embrace. Before releasing her, Fiona left a kiss upon the top of her head.

“You must be strong, sister,” she said, wiping the tear tracks from beneath Alma’s eyes. “Alicia may be the older between you, but she’ll need your help as much as you’ll need hers.”

Alma nodded, sniffling. “I will, Fi. I promise.”

“Good. Now you know I’d rather steal your company all for my own, but you must finish packing. You’re leaving at dawn tomorrow.”

“I know.” Alma sniffled again, casting a glance at her sea chest. “I only have a few more things.”

“That’s alright, then. Finish that up and I’ll spend the rest of the evening with you however you like.”

Alma looked up, surprised. “The Regent doesn’t need you?”

“He understands.”

“Oh.” A hint of a smile pulled at her lips. “Don’t go anywhere, Fi. I’ll be done packing before you know it.”

With those words she disappeared back into the other room, leaving Fiona standing next to her chair, fighting for control over herself. It was easier to put on a brave face in front of her sister than it was when she was alone.

She let out a shaky breath, steadying herself with a hand on the back of her chair. The tears that had threatened to come earlier finally brimmed over, frustration and fear and sadness all running silent trails down her cheeks. The Lieutenant remained at the door without comment, an expression that was part sympathy and part discomfiture etched into his features.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His mouth twitched into a frown. “It is not for me to pass judgment.”

She knew what he was trying to say. Now that they were alone in the room without Alma’s strength of feeling overwhelming her, she could feel the quiet thrum of anxious thought hidden behind Imran’s stony countenance.

“You don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. I fear that I do.”

“Mine is easy to hide. Yours, perhaps not. It is not my curse to feel the press of those who surround me,” Imran pointed out.

“My curse? It is an enchantment, Imran. It is Illen’s gift,” Fiona protested.

“Can such a gift not be a curse as well as a blessing?” he asked, raising a brow.

She had to admit that he had a point, one he had likely come to believe after many long years working at Gabriel’s side. “I’m afraid if I start letting myself think of it as such, I won’t be able to stop – and how ungrateful would that be? But you’re right, you know. It’s becoming so damn difficult to live with, let alone master. Especially now.” A noise of frustration escaped her, unbidden. “We’ve told no one about the development of my enchantment, not a single council member. They must be able to see how anxious and worried I am, but they don’t know the cause. I can only imagine what conclusions they’re drawing – that the little girl in her father’s robes is breaking beneath the pressure.”

Imran regarded her for a long moment, head inclined as he processed her words. “They see what they want to see. That can be a good thing. Let your foes underestimate you.”

“And my allies?”

“They know that you are far from breaking,” he said.

“Then they are more confident than I.”

Imran straightened. “There is a saying in Dramor: ‘the body is as strong as its weakest bone’. It is so with Anaphe. Do you think the Regent has such a worry about you?”

“I cannot help but wonder,” she admitted.

“You are wrong. Valory knows that you carry all of our burdens upon your shoulders, his included. You have not a weak bone in you.” He nodded, eyes fixed upon her talisman. “I am told that your God gave you your gifts, and made your bodies and minds strong enough to withstand their use. Why would you be the exception?”

“Thank you for the kind words, Lieutenant,” she murmured.

His eyes narrowed. “I do not say kind words. I say true ones.”

She supposed that was the case; he had always lived up to his reputation in that regard. “Then thank you for voicing them.” She sunk down into her chair, looking back down at her work with a sigh. She doubted she would be able to do any more work that night.

At the door, Imran cleared his throat. “You should know that I have seen Valory defeat impossible odds before.”

“And you think he can pull out another miracle for us?”

“One way or another, my Lady. I refuse to die in this godforsaken pit of a city.”

She should have been insulted by the way he spoke of her home, but found that she didn’t have it in her to raise her hackles. “Well,” she said, a smile she didn’t feel lightening her words, “when you figure out how to prevent that from coming to pass you’ll let me know, won’t you?”

Imran nodded, a hard edge to his words. “I had no intention of doing otherwise.”

…

“The evacuation of the settlements surrounding the city proper has concluded; the last caravan left for the coastal route several days past,” Valory said, taking a sip from his mug as he read over the bulleted minutes from the council meeting, scrawled in Fiona’s elegant script. “The first of the ships departed yesterday morning carrying women and children from the inner city and uppermost levels. Another is expected to depart on tomorrow’s tide.”

“That’s good news, at least,” Gabe said. Valory took in his officer’s appearance with a frown. The strain of spending so much time in Anaphe had taken its toll on the Empath; dark circles ringed his eyes and lines of worry were etched into his countenance.

“And the rest of the ships?” Little asked.

Valory looked up from Fiona’s notes to survey his men. He had meant for this to be an informal meeting – lighthearted, even – since Little had just seen the start of his forty-fourth year. As soon as they all sat down, however, they had realized just how long it had been since they were last together in a single space with no prying eyes or interruptions. The discussion, as a result, had inevitably turned to the state of Anaphe. “Scheduled to depart each morning for the next four days. The last will remain in the harbor unless their use is required.”

Little touched two fingers to his brow. “Let’s hope they stay there.”

“Apologies, Little. This is heavy talk for your day.”

Little held up his mug, offering Valory a half-hearted salute. “At least we’re not yet under siege. I’ve got a drink in my hand, and I’m not dead yet. It’s been as good a day as any other.”

Valory snorted out a laugh. “I’ll toast to that.”

“To not being dead yet,” Gabe echoed. Imran rolled his eyes.

“Besides, it’s good to get the lads together again,” Little added. “I don’t get to see yer ugly mugs without interruption as often as I’m used to.”

“The fault is mine: I’ve been pulled in many directions, of late,” Valory said.

Little cast a glance around the sitting room at that. “Is your wife in her chambers?”

“She’s with her cousin.”

“Samir,” Imran muttered.

“I have no love lost for the man, but what can I tell her? She has finally come to understand that, at a time like this, she cannot be the sole focus of my attention. It was hard-won progress. I can’t then turn around and grudge her the company that she keeps in my stead,” Valory replied. “I only hope that they speak of family matters and not of politics. She seemed to dislike Fiona enough as it was.”

“Jealousy,” Gabe offered. At Valory’s raised brow, he added, “A guess, no more. She still guards her thoughts from me, as is her right.”

“I hope she’ll come to realize, with time, that Fiona doesn’t merit such suspicion.”

“Do you really want her to come to understand why that is?” Imran asked, smoke spilling from his nostrils as he spoke.

Valory grimaced. “Perhaps not.” From the other side of the table, Gabriel had fixed him with a searching stare. “Yes, Gabe?”

“Your words bring Lord Arden to mind. I know you’d have told us if you had word from him – that’s not what I mean to ask after – but I do wonder about you.”

“Are you inquiring after my wellbeing in his absence?” Valory asked.

“You’ve not spoken on the matter in some time,” Gabe reminded him, a gentle lilt to his voice.

Valory felt a familiar tightness in his throat as he thought of Arden. He felt his Steward’s absence keenly; an emptiness behind his breastbone, a constant niggling concern at the back of his mind. “Nothing is served by voicing my worries aloud,” he said, voice sounding rough to his own ears.

From the anxious set to Gabe’s brow, Valory figured that he was about to say something unpleasant.

“Do we . . .” Gabe trailed off, gathering his thoughts before beginning again. “It’s been left unsaid that we’ve yet to receive word from Lord Arden, or reinforcements from Western naval forces. Now we know that Dramor is marching upon us, yet there remains no sight of our potential allies this side of the mountains. Should we begin to form our plans under the assumption that the West will not come to our aid?”

“Such an assumption means that Lord Arden has met with failure,” Imran frowned.

Valory’s fingers tightened around his mug. “Yet Gabriel speaks reason. We should have had some form of word from him by now.” He took a breath, forcing the choking fear that such a thought brought him out of his mind. “If no aid is forthcoming, we will have a difficult time of it. Worse still, if the West marches on us alongside the rest.”

Gabe turned his searching stare back Valory’s way. “You know I cannot read you in Anaphe as I can when we are elsewhere. I’ve heard the words you’ve spoken to others, but I’d like to know – what do you think our chances are?”

“Slim,” he said. It was the most optimism he could muster, given the circumstances.

“They are many,” Imran agreed.

“Our only hope lies in their approach. If we are fortunate they will exercise caution, as they have no way of knowing what waits behind Anaphe’s walls.”

“Will that give us a true advantage?” Gabriel asked.

Little shrugged, taking a swig of Lyrian ale. “It could, I s’pose. If the creatures fight as men do they won’t storm the gates. We could hold them for a while.”

“Waiting for aid that may never come,” Imran pointed out.

“And if they fight as beasts do?” Gabriel wondered.

Valory shook his head. “The gates will be forfeit.”

“Perhaps they will shrink from fire as the sea-witches did,” Gabe suggested.

“Perhaps.” Valory let out a long sigh. “I wish we had better reference for this, that I might better prepare Malcolm and his men.”

Little shrugged. “We have to make do with what we’ve got.”

A heavy silence descended upon them, broken only by Imran’s sharp exhalation. A ring of smoke drifted over the table.

“We will fight whatever vermin Dramor sends our way,” he said, tapping the ashes of his pipe into an empty cup. “We will be the last to go, if it comes to it. But we will go, and Valory, you _will_ come with us. If Anaphe falls, you cannot fall with it.”

“And leave Anaphe to its fate?”

“What of Armathia and her people? Will you put yourself in Dramor’s hands, and leave the capital to learn that the Regent has fallen through rumor?” Imran demanded. “Do not make me fight you on this.”

“It doesn’t seem an honorable course of action.”

Imran shook his head. “I see no honor in martyrdom. Maybe that is a difference between you and I.”

Valory’s gaze shifted sideways. “Let’s leave this heavy talk for another time.”

“Not for my sake, I hope,” Little said. “Val, if you want to keep things light on account of it being my Day and all, the best thing you can do is give me peace of mind. Tell us you’ll go if the time comes, and the last ship in harbor sees fit to set sail.”

Valory swallowed hard. However conflicted his thoughts were at the mention of a final evacuation, he knew that his men were right. Looking back across the table he met Little’s eyes, then Imran’s, then Gabe’s. “Alright,” he said. “Agreed.”

His men relaxed in their seats at his words, Little letting out an audible sigh of relief. “Well then,” he said, lips pulling into a grin, “since that’s all said and done, how about we sample that cask of homebrew Gabe and I carried up from the fourth level?”

“An entire cask?” Valory raised a brow.

“Seems to me we could use an evening of merrymaking. Anaphe’s got us by the bollocks, but I’ll not let that spoil my day,” he said, standing and making for the door to Valory’s sitting room. He disappeared into the hallway for a moment, raising his voice to be heard at a distance. “We figured you’d naysay any attempt to get you down to a tavern, Val, so I decided we’d bring the revelry to you instead.”

The cask crossed the threshold first, a wide wooden barrel that bore the stamp of one of the fourth level taverns. “Council is enough of a trial even when I don’t wake with bottle ache,” Valory said, lining up their mugs in spite of his words.

“Then have enough so you’re still buzzed in the morning,” Little grinned. “It’d make the whole ordeal a damn sight more entertaining, I’d wager.”

Valory snorted. “I’m sure the Anaphean nobility would appreciate that.”

“To the locker with ‘em, and all the misery they’ve caused,” Little swore, tapping the cask and pouring for each of them.

Valory hesitated, eyeing the mug of cloudy, amber drink Little handed him. It wasn’t wise to let their guard down, but he longed to be able to take an evening with his men, one in which he wasn’t up to his elbows in worries, expectations, and plans for the upcoming battle. “One last night of revelry, then,” he agreed, “in celebration of your Day.”

“In celebration of making it through another day,” Little countered.

“How did you put it before, Little? I agreed with your words,” Imran said, accepting his half-full mug. He had volunteered to keep his wits about him that night, with all of the responsibility it entailed.

“To not being dead yet,” Little repeated, raising his mug.

“And not for some time, Fángon be willing,” Valory added.

Their mugs clinked together in another toast, and Valory drank deep. They had survived another day in hostile Anaphe. It was an achievement he didn’t take lightly.

Fingers curling around his vambraces, he hoped that somewhere to the West, Arden was ringing in the evening by raising a mug of his own.

He couldn’t stomach the alternative.

…

“ _The quick-efficiency of the evacuation is unfortunate_ ,” Samir mused. A third vessel had departed that morning, carrying merchant families who would have drained the city’s resources during siege. “ _Perhaps I should have suspected as much from a man with the Regent’s background. We should have been rid of him sooner_.”

“ _Against our Lord’s orders_?” Sybina arched a brow.

“ _This evacuation—_ “

“ _If there is any compliment I can give to Valory’s elite-guard, it’s that they are unerringly loyal. If we had carried out our Lord’s plan two weeks ago, they would have been dogged in their pursuit of revenge_.”

Samir made a face. “ _Especially the Lieutenant-traitor_.”

“ _Our Lord is wise_ ,” she said, returning her gaze to the window. “ _They will have no time to do aught but fight. By the time they realize what has befallen their Regent, it will be too late_.”

Samir took a seat across from her, studying her countenance as he did. “ _Your mood is low, cousin_.”

“ _I suppose it is_.”

“ _Does the thought of his demise still upset you, after all that has come to pass_?”

She dropped her chin into her hands. “ _Have you never been forced to let go of a dream, cousin_?”

“ _My dream is for Zathár to—_ “

“ _Come now, Samir; I hardly think it blasphemous to have dreams outside of our cause_. _‘For the greatest among us are those who devote ourselves to our kin, and if our kin be taken from us, to the revenge of our kin’s honor. 2203:5.’”_ She shook her head. “ _Would he have penned such verses if we were disallowed other loyalties and causes_?”

“ _I’m afraid I’m not as familiar with the Book as you_ ,” Samir admitted.

This earned him a disapproving stare. “ _You don’t know it by rote_?”

“ _I don’t_.”

“ _Anaphe has made you lazy-complacent cousin. You have grown used to having rooms of your own and men loyal to your cause. In Armathia my copy of the Book sat under guarded-lock. If I wished to pray the words had to come from my memory alone_.”

“ _I will endeavor to correct this oversight-mistake._ ”

“ _Our Lord will be pleased if you do_ ,” she said, feeling the answering pulse at the back of her thoughts which told her she had spoken well. “ _But look, we’ve diverted from your question_.”

“ _About our orders._ ” Samir nodded. “ _If you meant to ask me whether I’ve ever had hopes-ambitions that have not come to fruition, then yes, I have_.”

“ _It hurts, doesn’t it_?” she asked with a sad smile. “ _You see,_ _I know that my husband will reap no more than he has sown. As the weeks have passed, I’ve come to feel-understand that it is not his death which so haunts me, but the death of the dream that I had held-cherished._ ”

“ _You mourn what could have been_?”

“ _If he weren’t so tainted a man_ ,” she sighed. “ _I must remind myself that I am not mourning an action I’ve yet to take, but something which has already come to pass. I have already lost that dream. I would have had to let go of it even if Zathár had permitted him to live._ ”

Samir shifted in his seat. “ _We will find you a proper husband once our work in Anaphe is through: a true Dramorian, and a man of honor_.”

She smiled at him, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “ _Thank you for trying to cheer me: it is kind-loving of you. But you must understand: I did feel steadfast-love for my husband. There is only one cure for such an ailment_.”

“ _Time_ ,” Samir nodded, “ _as the adage says_.”

“ _I suppose it wouldn’t be an adage if it weren’t so heart-true_.”

Samir let out a long sigh, standing once more. “ _I wish you wouldn’t let a man so tainted be the cause of your mood. He is beneath you_.”

“ _He’s not the sole cause_.” Sybina sighed. “ _I wish I were a stronger soldier-general for Zathár, but so much time spent in the presence of Illen’s children wearies me_.”

“ _Is that why you have been here so often, of late_?”

Sybina reached out to press his arm. “ _Come, Samir – you know I enjoy your company_.”

“ _My rooms also happen to be a convenient refuge from the prying mind of Valory’s Empath_ ,” Samir pointed out. “ _You can admit to it, cousin. I won’t be offended. I struggle to shield myself from his probing as well_.”

“ _I should be accustomed to it by now_ ,” she said, making a frustrated noise. “ _My father taught me how from a very young age, and I’ve been practicing for as long as I can remember. Empathy runs in the House of Stewards, and I’ve always had to be careful around them, but_ —”

“ _Gabriel is stronger_.”

“ _He is. It’s hateful. He’s been hanging around the suite incessantly, and all of his poking and prodding has given me a headache. I’ve had it for days, Samir. I know it’s a small complaint in the face of all of the sacrifices that others have made for our cause, but I’m simply worn out_.”

Samir patted her shoulder. “ _You have devoted much strength to aiding our Lord. It has left you tired and susceptible to such things. I would not consider such matters petty_.”

“ _No_ ,” she murmured. “ _Nevertheless I intend to stay away from the Regent and his men as best as I can until the time comes. It would be a tragic-shame to tip my hand now_.”

“ _Only a week_ ,” Samir reminded her. “ _And you know that you’re always welcome here_.”

She hummed out a response, returning her stare to the window once more. Figuring that she wished to be left alone for a time, Samir moved back towards his writing desk where he had been crafting another letter to Edmund regarding progress within Anaphe. He let out a silent sigh as he looked over what he had so far; writing in code made his eyes cross, but he knew it was nothing short of imperative that he do so. The repercussions if a letter fell into enemy hands were unthinkable, otherwise.

“ _Samir_?”

He started, turning back towards the window. “ _How may I be of service_?”

“ _I only wish to know . . ._ ” she trailed off.

“ _Cousin_?”

“ _What’s it like, to take a life_?” she asked, voice a near-whisper.

“ _It’s not easy_ ,” he admitted. “ _It depends whose life you’re taking. And I think, no matter the person or the cause, the first is one you will always remember._ ” He crossed the room to stand beside her, laying a hand on her shoulder, hoping it gave her some measure of comfort. “ _It will be a hard-painful thing, even if he has done you much harm_.”

She reached up to pat at his hand. “ _I’m glad you’ll be with me, in the moments before, as my support and guide_.”

“ _I’m heart-honored to hear you say so_ ,” he murmured. “ _Yet I would do it instead, if that was your wish_.”

She shook her head, and he knew that she would not be swayed. “ _Our Lord has charged me with this task, and I will be the one to see it through. I have failed him once before. I will not make the same mistake twice._ ” She fell silent once more, gaze returning to the window.

Samir knew a dismissal when he saw one, and left her to her thoughts.

…

_The Season of Renewal  
Illád the 27; 2422_

The door to the sitting room shut behind Siath with a bang.

“Verne, we have a problem on our hands. I require your aid,” he said. As he spoke he noticed that Agatha sat in a rocking chair in the corner, Alistair miraculously still asleep in her lap. He grimaced. “Lady Agatha I apologize both for the interruption and for stealing away your husband, but needs must.”

“The apology is unnecessary, my Lord,” she replied, gesturing down at Alistair’s peaceful expression. “Before you go, though, allow me to wish you a Happy Day.”

“Thank you, Lady Agatha.”

“Will you celebrate the milestone this evening?” she asked, words taking on the rhythm of her gentle rocking.

Siath made a face. “I know I’m not considered old when my enchantment is taken into account, but I’m afraid my vanity would not withstand a fete at which all of the court musicians would debut their clever rhymes for ‘seventy’.”

Agatha stifled her laughter with some effort. “Very well, my Lord – but Happy Day in any case. Worry not over the tongue-in-cheek rhymes of your musicians; you are the very picture of youth.”

Verne rolled his eyes, an exasperated noise escaping his throat. “Don’t say such things, dear wife. It’ll all go to his head, and we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Siath smiled. “I tried to tell Verne that the greying at my temples was all the work of the Sea-Witch King, but he called me a vain old fool and refused to play along.”

“How unkind of him.” Agatha raised an amused brow in Verne’s direction.

“It deeply worries me how often you two see eye-to-eye with one another, my Lord.”

Siath’s smile broadened. “As much as I would like to see what fruit our combined efforts would yield, Lady Agatha, I’m afraid that the news I have won’t keep.”

“Of course, my Lord – please don’t let me keep you,” she replied. “Husband, if you would summon my handmaid when you go? I’d like some company in your absence.”

“Of course,” Verne said, pressing a kiss to her temple before standing, casting a final look at their sleeping son before following Siath out of the room.

They had only just entered the hallway when Verne turned to his King, mind already springing forward towards the problem at hand. “My Lord, before you tell me of your news I should share mine. I’ve only just been working through the latest reports from the guardsmen assigned to Lester.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing so interesting as that, I’m afraid. Indeed, they had nothing to report at all. Lester has been a model citizen for the past several weeks.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it?”

Verne’s lips pulled into a frown. “So long as we aren’t missing something, my Lord. He may know that we are watching him.”

“The implication being that he’s waiting until we take our eyes from him to reach out to Indar?”

“Or that he was honest in his confession.”

“The less likely of the two,” Siath remarked.

“To be sure, my Lord. What are your orders?”

“We’ll keep the guardsmen occupied with surveillance of his activities. It hasn’t been all that long since his confession, though it seems that way at times. Once he recovers his surety he’ll act again, and we’ll be there when he falters.”

“Very good, my Lord. Now please, what news did you have for me?”

“Nothing good, I’m afraid. We have received word from the Oldred delegation. They’ve returned to Halen after an unsuccessful bid for support,” Siath said as they bounded down the stairs towards Verne’s study.

“This is not the news I had expected,” Verne admitted. “What were the reasons given?”

“A strange tale,” Siath said as they entered the room, shutting the door behind them. “I should have insisted that my father reconnect with Oldred years ago. It was something I felt strongly about, but you know how my father was; he wasn’t the sort to swallow down the blow to his pride from Thun’s rejection of his treaty.”

“I thought his son had taken the throne now – Carlin, wasn’t it?” Verne asked.

Siath made a face. “In a manner of speaking. It was Carlin whose letter was enclosed with the dispatch, and though he signs with the authority of a King, he does not, apparently, hold the crown.”

Verne held up a hand. “My Lord, please – explain.”

“You’ve heard the tall tale of the Sarian Ice Queen?” At Verne’s nod, Siath continued. “It sounds as though there’s more truth to it than either of us anticipated. Carlin has a sister, a twin, who was crowned in his stead – named Thun’s successor because of the talent she possesses. From what I understand, she was meant to carry the title while her brother wielded all of its power.”

“I assume that this arrangement went awry.”

“Not in the sense you suspect. Some years ago – when I was a young man – the Queen fled the capital with a contingent of her followers and made for the frozen north. Whether it was a protest of an arranged marriage or a bid for greater power, Carlin is unsure. She has lived there for the better part of fifty years.”

“He cannot bring her back to the capital?” Verne asked.

“He can make her do little by force, from what I understand: she is still a Queen,” Siath shrugged.

“Yet she abandoned her duty, did she not?”

“Sarian custom dictates that abdication is only possible through death or emigration,” Siath replied. At Verne’s raised brow, Siath gestured at the sheaf of papers he had carried with him. “Or so our diplomats tell me. Besides, she has many supporters who remain true to her name. Carlin is in the unfortunate position of having a minor talent in comparison with his sister’s great gift. He grows old upon the throne while she remains young.”

“Thun left behind two heirs instead of one, and the public is split between them. Is that what I’m to take from this?” Verne asked. “He is worried that if he sends aid to us, he will leave himself exposed to the north. His sister could return to the capital and claim the full power of her title.”

“He suspects she is waiting for him to name his oldest son as heir.”

“For what purpose?” Verne asked.

“So that she may be free of obligation once and for all. Carlin doesn’t think her covetous – he thinks her disinterested.” Siath watched his Steward begin to shuffle through the sheaf of paper, lips moving as he read through some of the material their diplomats had provided.

“Forgive me, my Lord, but I don’t understand why he would decline our request for aid if he doesn’t expect his sister to challenge his son’s claim.”

“It is his own claim that worries him. It is, after all, illegitimate – and therefore, so are the claims of his children. He has no right to name an heir,” Siath pointed out. “As it stands, Oldred is well protected by men loyal to his command. He worries, however, that if he sent enough of his men to aid us in our fight against Zathár, his opponents might take the opportunity to wrest control from his hands.”

“Is such a thing plausible?” Verne asked. “I would have thought that any claims to power would be legitimized only if the challenger could show some tie to the Queen.”

“Such a thing could be manufactured, could it not?”

Verne peered at the dispatch, puzzling through a few sentences of Sarian cursive. “He worries that he will have a civil war upon his hands if he comes to our aid.”

“Our diplomats think his situation untenable. He has repelled rebellions in the past, but he was a younger man, then. He has seen many years of peace since those early days, but things are beginning to fray. The younger generations see his weakness and are willing to exploit it. All they need is an even playing field, and that is what Carlin would provide by sending aid.”

Verne frowned. “The last Sarian civil war was what, four generations ago? Five?”

“They certainly don’t have a predisposition against battling an entrenched monarch for the crown, if that’s what you mean,” Siath replied. “That’s not to say that Carlin can’t see the urgency of our situation, however. There have been raids on the Sarian border as well, and sightings of creatures. He knows that if we fall, Zathár would come knocking upon his door in due course.”

“Yet he prioritizes his son’s kingship?” Verne raised a brow.

“Perhaps not wrongfully. What would happen to Saria if they attempted an internal and a foreign war at the same time?” Siath asked.

Verne considered his words, grey eyes shrewd as they rested upon Siath’s face. “What have you not yet told me, my Lord?”

“Carlin has offered a trade of services. If we help him secure the crown once and for all, he will send us every man he can spare. More than that, he is willing to accept the terms of the alliance that my father proposed decades ago.”

Verne’s eyes narrowed. “And the catch, my Lord?”

“I must marry his sister.”

“He wishes to send her from Sarian soil without alienating her supporters,” Verne mused. “Must it be you who takes her hand upon the altar, my Lord?”

“She is the Queen of Saria. To suggest that she wed a foreigner of lower rank would be a powerful insult.”

Verne pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose, staving off a headache. “I see. If he promises his sister to the King of Oceana he can pass the move off as a brilliant alliance, made in a time of need. If she marries below her station, it becomes more difficult for him to claim that he was motivated by aught other than self-interest.”

“Just so,” Siath nodded.

“Has the Queen agreed to this?”

“Ah, well. That, as you put it, is the catch. According to Carlin, she will need to be convinced. The delegation considered making the journey themselves, but Carlin warned them against it; the way north will remain unpassable for perhaps another month until the thaw begins.” Siath let out a chuff of laughter. “He also intimated that we might choose to send someone more personable than our current emissary to speak with his sister.”

Verne pressed his lips together, studying Siath’s face. “You are considering this offer.”

“Carlin has an entire army at his disposal. We need those men.”

“It would put a foreigner on the throne,” Verne pointed out.

“There won’t _be_ any throne if we have to face Dramor and the demon on our own.” Siath took a breath. “Besides, I find that I cannot refuse to do what I have already demanded of my brother.”

Verne was left without a rebuttal. “Are you asking for my counsel?”

“Always.”

“You’ll have to give me a moment to gather my thoughts, my Lord.”

“Of course.”

Verne bent his head over the papers once more, taking his time as he read through each of the documents. The bulk of the material was a report from their delegation detailing the situation in Oldred, peppered with details and descriptions in flowery turns of phrase. The final few sheets of paper were written in what Verne assumed was Carlin’s hand, detailing the story of his sister’s departure from the capital and his fear that, without a true king upon the throne, Saria might crumble beneath its own weight.

Pressing once more at the bridge of his nose, he turned to Siath. “It seems that we have little choice in the matter.”

“As far as odd treaty requests go, I suppose it could be worse,” Siath shrugged.

“Allow me to remind you of those words, if she turns out to be an awful creature,” Verne muttered.

Siath shot him a sidelong smile. “And if the alliance helps us win the day?”

“You can rub it in as much as you like, my Lord.”

Siath’s smile broadened. “Illen willing, you’ll regret those words.”

“I find I cannot set my hopes against our best chance for victory and peace,” Verne admitted, lips tilting ever-so-slightly upward. “Yet securing Saria’s aid is still no mean feat, no matter how well Carlin has laid out the steps we must take. From all I’ve read, it sounds as though the Ice Queen will not be easy to convince.”

“The ramifications for refusing my proposal will be dire. If she has any love of her fellow man, her path will become clear to her. It is the only reasonable course,” Siath replied.

“Take care when associating women and logic, my Lord,” Verne cautioned.

“My mother would take umbrage to that.”

“Then I suppose we will soon discover whether or not the Sarian Queen has as fine and rare a mind as your mother’s,” Verne replied.

Siath was quiet for a moment, staring off into the middle-distance between them. Verne had just begun to worry that he had succumbed to another vision when his eyes sharpened and focused once more. “I know my brother made a persuasive case for forming an alliance with the West, but I still wish that his Steward was available to make the journey to Saria.”

“Perhaps we would have had more success if he had gone, as was our original intention,” Verne remarked.

“At the very least, he’d have traveled back to Halen with the delegation, and would already have been poised to make the journey north at the first sign of thaw. With both of our brothers occupied with the defense of Anaphe, I know not who we will send.”

“We have some time to make our decision. Northern Saria will not thaw until Illán,” Verne said. “Let’s hope Dramor isn’t at our gates by then.”

A wan smile crossed Siath’s face. “I’ll happily second that – but let’s be optimistic, shall we? Even if they are, I suppose we’ll have saved someone a rather unpleasant trip.”


	17. Chapter 17

_The Season of Renewal  
Illád the 30; 2422_

The sun had risen by the time Félix abandoned hope of sleep. Making a cursory attempt at fixing the rumpled bedclothes, he pulled on both belt and boots before splashing his face with water. He stretched up to push the hatch above his head open a crack. A brisk breeze snaked through the cabin. Peeking over the rim of his hatch, he could see the back of Arden’s head up on the foredeck. He decided against going up to see how things were at the helm; though the Ithakan and his compatriots had been less hostile of late, Félix thought it better not to push his luck and headed for the galley instead.

Although Ehrin was also off-watch, her duties aboard _Windjammer_ were manifold. As such she was already up and about and seemed to have been for some time. Félix watched from the companionway as she beat at a slab of bread dough, flour smeared up her forearms and smudged over the bridge of her nose. It would always marvel him that she could be both sailor and caretaker in equal measure.

“ _What did the bread ever do to you_?” he asked.

She started, letting out a yelp and whirling around. “For Fángon’s sake, Félix – you move like one of those jungle cats.”

He rolled a shoulder in a casual shrug, boosting himself up to sit on the divider between the companionway and galley. “ _It is the light tread of a lifetime sailor_.”

“Yeh, well. I’m surprised to see you up so early. We’re off watch – don’t you ever sleep?” she asked.

He cast a pointed glance at the bread dough. “I could ask you the same.”

“I’ve got to keep you lads fed, with your bottomless appetites.” She began to knead once more, a tired sigh escaping her lips.

“You are finding that sleep does not come so easy,” Félix surmised, reaching past her to snag a roll from the far corner of the countertop.

Ehrin kept her focus trained on her dough. “Can you blame me? This whole business is nerve-wracking. Besides, being on the river is strange. It’s unnatural to be so heeled over without any pitching or rolling. Makes me edgy.”

That much he understood; he had always preferred the ocean to the river. “We have not yet caught sight of the men sent after us. That is a good thing.”

“I don’t know,” she muttered. “The waiting’s almost worse: spending every watch squinting at the river bends behind us, staring at the jungle for any signs of pursuit.”

“They will not catch us over the land. The jungle is too dense for quick travel, and we are making good time,” Félix pointed out.

“Doesn’t stop me from feeling like something’s going to jump out at us from behind every corner.”

“We will see our enemy long before they catch us. You forget that I was a Captain of a vessel like this one. I know this river and the men who fight on it. We do not have cause to fear. Not yet.”

Blowing out a sigh, Ehrin offered him a guilty smile over her shoulder. “Yeh, I s’pose I do forget that. I didn’t mean to question your judgment. I’m just not very good at this waiting business.” She dropped the dough into the flour-dusted pan beside her.

He didn’t respond, electing to take a bite of his roll instead. Her focus was occupied by the bread, corner of her tongue poking out of her mouth as she pushed the dough into the correct shape and sliced it down the middle. It received another dusting of flour before she turned towards the oven, opening it a crack before shaking her head and bumping the door shut with her hip.

“Not hot enough,” she explained. Pushing the dough aside, she turned towards the other assorted pots and jars that sat upon the countertop. “You said you were a Captain of a vessel like this one. Was it a two-master, then?”

“Early in my career, yes. It was my first command. There were many vessels before I took _Madesta_ as a Commodore.”

“I shouldn’t . . . I forget, sometimes, that you’ve left all of that behind. I don’t mean to rub salt in it.”

“I am aware.”

She went quiet at that, teeth worrying at her lip. She had that set to her face that told him he was figuring out how to pose a question to him. He finished his roll, waiting for her to find the right words.

“Do you regret it at all?” she asked. “Your decision, I mean.”

“No,” he said, a bit surprised by his own answer. “It is the first good one I have made in some time.”

From the look on her face he knew that he wasn’t the only one confounded by the events of the past weeks. He supposed that it was only fair that such changes were difficult for her to accept; she had no window into his mind, and as a result had every reason to doubt his sincerity. There was a saying, in the West, about being wary of jungle cats who claimed to have changed their stripes. He supposed it was an appropriate comparison.

“I know you think it better than staying allied with Zathár, but that’s not really what I meant. I meant . . . well, you’re a deckhand again. You used to have a whole fleet at your command. Isn’t that odd?” she asked.

It wasn’t the question he had been expecting. He paused to consider it. “It is different,” he admitted. “I find I do not dislike it. I enjoy handling sails.”

“Yeh,” she breathed. “I s’pose I knew that. I can tell, just watching you. Not too often you see a navy man of rank who remembers how to work the lines, let alone likes it. Some of the lads are warming to you because of it, I think.”

“Even the Ithakan?” Félix raised a brow.

Ehrin sighed. “I think he’ll always be upset about what happened to Elona, and that’s his right. But the other night when we took our rum rations together with Jonah on the fiddle – I think that helped.”

“He was not pleased by my presence,” he protested.

“No, but when he got on you about being a turncoat I think your answer gave him pause.”

Félix hopped down from the divider, folding his arms across his chest. “You have made me see that, even under the demon, my people would not have been free. I told him I still fight in the name of a free Madesta. I did not realize he thought otherwise.” He considered her words. “Why would that change his opinion of me?”

Ehrin began to whip the contents of her second bowl – eggs, by the sound of it. “Niko’s no idealist, Félix. You and he don’t speak the same language, and I don’t just mean that literally. He’s the practical sort. Islanders often are. I think he finds self-interest easier to believe, as far as motivations go.”

Her hair had begun to escape its plait, dark flyaway strands falling forward into her eyes. His feet moved almost of their own volition. He found himself standing behind her, reaching up to brush the hair from her eyes, fingertips tracing her brow and temple as he tucked the strands behind an ear. He felt her stiffen, felt her quick intake of breath. His hand continued on its path, the backs of his fingers sliding down the nape of her neck to stop at her collar.

He knew that she questioned his motivations as readily as the Ithakan did, even if she was more reluctant to voice such questions aloud. He dropped his hand. Someday, perhaps, he could draw near her without seeing that stiffness in her posture, that furrow of her brow as she wondered whether he was the sort to try and get something out of her while offering nothing in return.

On the other hand, he couldn’t blame her for her hesitance. His attraction for her had grown strong, and such things were dangerous: for while he would never hurt her willingly, he couldn’t help but wonder what would come to pass if she was pitted opposite Belen and a united Madesta.

“Do you think me a selfish man, Miss Ehrin?” he murmured.

She turned her head, leveling him with a discerning stare. “I’m an islander too,” she said, pulling away from him and opening the door to the oven once more. A wave of heat hit him as she grabbed the pan of dough and pushed in inside. “That said, I also like to think I know a little bit about people after all these years on _Windjammer_.”

“And?”

She stood, shutting the oven door. A thin smile pulled at her lips. “I suppose I know enough to reserve judgment for when a man sees fit to suit action to word.”

“That is . . .” he trailed off, unable to find the Oceanic word he wanted. He leaned against the countertop. The weight of a sleepless night sat ill upon his shoulders. “ _Prudent_ ,” he finally said, giving in and switching back to Belenese.

She covered his hand with hers, giving his knuckles a brief squeeze before pulling away. “Go get some rest. You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“Have someone wake me for the meal.” He ducked beneath the divider.

“I will.”

He was asleep, fully clothed with boots still on, the moment he hit his bunk.

…

Arden stared at the bulkhead, eyes wide and unseeing in the dark. It was a sweltering night, air sticky with moisture, and he had stripped down to his thinnest leggings to battle the stagnant below-deck heat. Months spent in the West had thinned his blood, however, so it wasn’t the heat that kept him from sleep.

The gut-clenching worry that shook him as his thoughts turned to Anaphe kept him awake during off-watch hours. Each night when his duties were through he lay down in his bunk and counted the nails in the bulkhead beside him, attempting to focus his mind on _Windjammer_ and her concerns: how to evade their pursuers, the map of Ashaia’s delta that Félix had annotated, the state of their rations. Even as he attempted to contemplate such matters, however, he found that it took effort to concentrate. A press of anxious questions hovered just beneath the surface of his conscious thoughts, making his pulse race and his stomach churn.

His concern for Valory underscored everything, and such fear was inextricably bound up with thoughts of his nieces, of Imran, of Little and Gabe. He hated how helpless he felt, constrained by the whims of wind and tide, unable to take his place beside them as he had promised he would. He had never managed well in the face of uncertainty, and this was no exception. He had no way of knowing what was happening in Anaphe. It was bad enough that he had failed to bring aid from Madesta; but now it was not his diplomatic shortcomings alone that haunted him. Here on _Windjammer_ he was unable to protect those he loved. It was excruciating.

He sat up, abandoning any pretense of sleeping. Mizzen, who had returned to his cabin while they were docked in Zaránd, lifted her head to regard him with half-lidded eyes.

Arden felt around beside his pillow for Valory’s vambraces. He slid them on over bare forearms, tracing a finger across the worn relief of Val’s insignia, frowning as his thumb passed over stippling on one edge.

“If you chewed on these while I was asleep, there will be severe retribution,” he warned.

Mizzen, disinterested, lowered her head and went back to sleep.

Rolling his eyes, Arden slid to the floor to root around for his shirt and boots, pulling them on one after another. He found his belt and weaponry where he had left them atop the chart spread out on his desk; these he buckled low across his hips. Exiting his cabin, he took a moment to get his bearings.

All was quiet below deck. Callum’s door was dogged open, and Arden could see him sprawled across his cot as he passed. The Captain spent most of his time on the quarterdeck these days, but even he left the dog watch to be minded by others.

Halfway up the aft companionway, Arden paused to regard the still figure at the helm. This was Félix’s watch – strange in theory, but easy in practice. He had gone from prisoner to ally to crewmember in just over a month. Although Arden was willing to concede that the turnover had begun before that, it still amazed him at times to see the former Belenese Commodore at _Windjammer_ ’s helm. It was also a pleasant surprise to realize that the sight didn’t worry him. He trusted the man, and whether that was a product of faith or enchantment, he knew that the schooner was safe in Félix’s hands.

Félix was in his element at _Windjammer_ ’s helm, an air of focused calm about him. He had the soft, practiced hands of an expert helmsman, making constant, minute adjustments to compensate for the schooner’s tendency to turn into the wind. He steered towards his mark rather than the by the compass, head tipping back at intervals to examine the shape of the sails. That he was an intuitive sailor was evident. That he loved a brisk sail was obvious. These were the merits that had inspired the truce between him and the rest of the crew: a truce that Arden hoped would hold.

Félix’s attention was drawn his way as he emerged from the companionway. “It is not yet six bells,” he said, voice faint in the brisk breeze.

“I’ll get no more sleep this night,” Arden replied.

“Hm.”

Arden was thankful that, despite their growing friendship, Félix still tended to refrain from comment. It was a rare thing, with a crew that was more akin to family, to spend time on deck on a sleepless night and not have to explain oneself.

They sat in silence for some long minutes, watching the opposite riverbank approach. Félix knew the Ashaia well, and was both willing and able to push _Windjammer_ closer to shore than Arden would have risked. As a result, they were bearing down upon the shallows when Félix flashed a hand sign towards Ehrin and Jonah on the bow, telling them to prepare for a tack.

“Will you take the . . . ?” Félix gestured forward.

“Foresail sheet?” Arden prompted. Félix was still expanding his technical sailing vocabulary.

“No. The wind is light enough to cross it without sheeting in. But the line twists.”

“You want me to keep the block from fouling?” Arden guessed.

“The block. Yes.”

Arden headed for the midships housetop where the foresail traveler sat. The weight of the massive block – through which the sheet ran three times – often caused it to tip over and twist as the sails crossed and the sheets went temporarily slack. Such twists had to be avoided to prevent chafe and promote proper sail trim, and were a royal pain to fix after the fact.

As Félix turned _Windjammer_ ’s bow through the eye of the wind, Arden pulled slack out of the line to keep it taught and maintain the block’s upright position. As the foresail boom swung over his head, he released his grip on the line and allowed the block to take up the slack. _Windjammer_ gained speed as the wind filled the sails once more, heeling to the other side.

Arden hopped down from the housetop, passing Ehrin and Jonah with a smile and a nod on the way back to the quarterdeck. He reached the helm as Félix was settling into their new course, a long diagonal line downriver towards the far bank.

“No sign of pursuit yet?” he asked, perching atop a deck box.

“No. I would have woken you.”

“You’re certain they’re following us?” Arden cast a glance over the transom. The river ran dark behind them.

“Yes. They will send river vessels after us.”

“River vessels are quick. I thought they would have caught us up by now,” Arden mused.

“Hm.” Félix glanced up at the sails, correcting their course. “We are lucky. If we remain so, they will not catch us before we reach the sea. We can outrun them there.”

“Yet you suspect we won’t be so lucky,” Arden surmised.

“I do not believe in luck, but if I am wrong and there is such a thing, we will need it. When they reach us they will drive us into the shallows. If our keel touches the mud, we will be stuck. That is when they will board us.”

“You’ve fought Zaránd before, I take it.”

“Yes. It has been some years since our last battle, but I remember their tactics well. They are deadly when they catch a vessel this far upriver.”

Arden drummed his fingers against the deck box. “You may see a skirmish against your countrymen sooner rather than later.”

Félix shrugged. “They will be Zarándrian and Arrindurian vessels, all. Not Belenese.”

Arden knew better than to take his dismissal at face value. Félix may have led campaigns against his neighbors in the past, but that had little bearing upon what he wanted for the future. “Either way,” he said, meeting Félix’s eyes, “we’re going to need you on the helm if such a confrontation comes to pass. You know the river better than Callum or I. So I suppose you won’t be raising arms against a fellow Madestan – not in the literal sense, at least.”

“If that is the Captain’s command,” he said, shrugging again.

Arden knew that Félix understood the reprieve he had been granted. Further words on the matter were unnecessary.

They lapsed into companionable silence once more. From below, Arden heard the clock toll out the hour. A few moments later, Ehrin appeared on the quarterdeck.

“ _Do you want coffee_?” she asked in stilted Belenese.

“I’ll take a cup,” Arden said.

“Yer supposed to answer back in Belenese, Jack – that’s the whole point,” she sighed.

“Apologies, Galley Tyrant. _I’ll take a cup_ ,” he amended, earning a smack on the arm.

“ _I’ll have one as well_ ,” Félix added.

“ _Are there any cakes left_?” Arden asked.

Ehrin furrowed her brow. “ _Repeat_?”

“ _Spice cakes_?”

“Oh! Yeh. _I will bring one to you. A moment._ ” With a smile she turned and disappeared down the companionway.

“She improves,” Félix noted.

“As does your Oceanic. I hadn’t known you were still practicing with her.”

“You placed me on her watch team. It passes the time.”

Arden doubted that was the only reason Félix saw fit to teach her his language. “She’s fond of you.”

“This is why I share her watch. You would not have put me with the Ithakan.”

“Your Oceanic is good enough for you to know what I mean.”

“Hm.”

Arden turned to meet his eyes. “Do her no harm.”

“I thought her father would be the first to give such a warning,” he said, arching a brow.

“I’m sure it will come with time.”

“I have no intentions towards her.”

Arden snorted. “You’re doing a fine job of convincing the crew of that.” Félix narrowed his eyes, but made no comment. Arden continued, “I count Ehrin among my family. Remember that. Whatever decisions she make are her own, but I would see you proceed with caution.”

“I do not wish harm upon her,” Félix snapped, an edge to his voice. “I do not like the thought of such. But I am not one of Illen’s children. I cannot make promises on what the future will bring.” He let out a breath, glancing up at the main and correcting their course before meeting Arden’s eyes once more. “All I can promise you is this: if harm comes to her by my hand, it will not be intentional.”

As he spoke the galley hatch opened, revealing two mugs of coffee held up in Ehrin’s hands. Arden slid across the deck box to take them from her. “Need another pair of hands?”

“Nah, I can manage my mug and the cakes on my own. Would you shut the hatch, though?”

Setting the mugs down beside him, he shut and dogged the hatch. The lack of swell made it easy enough to navigate his way back across the deck box and over to the helm with his hands full. After handing Félix a mug he took a long swallow of his own coffee and slid back onto his seat with a grateful sigh.

Ehrin appeared back on deck shortly thereafter, offering Félix his choice of pieces. “You have a sweet tooth,” she teased as he selected the largest slice.

“ _I require a larger piece_ ,” he claimed, a smile playing about his lips. “ _I’m nearly twice your size_.”

“You _will_ be twice my size if you keep it up,” she grinned.

“ _All in the name of keeping the peace. I’m told the Tyrant of the Galley grows upset with those who fail to show adequate appreciation for her cooking_.”

“Gods, not you, too,” she sighed, hiding her smile behind her mug. “Jack? Corner piece?”

He claimed his slice before Ehrin headed back to bow watch. A glance at the helm confirmed that Félix’s eyes were not on the sails, but on her retreating form.

“I believe you,” Arden said.

That drew Félix’s attention. “I was truthful. I intend no harm.”

“Yet good intentions often do the most damage.”

Félix’s expression darkened. “I am aware.”

He hadn’t meant to reference Félix’s ill-conceived alliance with Zathár, but he supposed it was an apt comparison. Either way, he had said his piece. It wasn’t his place to intervene any further.

As usual, the rest was out of his hands.

…

Ehrin slipped the lid back onto the pot of stew before tightening the strap that kept it from sliding around on the stovetop. The watch had changed nearly an hour earlier, and Jonah and Félix had both elected to sleep before eating; she hoped it would stay warm long enough for them to get their portion upon waking. Next to her the kettle whistled, and she pulled the lever that would smother the fire beneath the stovetop. She wrapped her hand with a rag before whisking the kettle over to the countertop where a linen filter sat over a large jar. As soon as she began to pour, the rich smell of coffee worked its way through the galley.

Finished with the kettle Ehrin replaced it on a hook high above the stovetop before tossing the filter into her wash bucket and pouring the coffee out into mugs. It was simple enough for her to carry three mugs with one hand, so she was able to balance the bundle of lemon cakes in the other and head out to the quarterdeck.

Her father was at the helm, Arden next to him with his back to windward. The dim light of a lantern hung amidships cast a yellow glow upon them; her father’s features were tense with concentration, Arden’s pensive as he looked out over the river.

“Coffee, Da?” she asked, offering the mug to him. He reached for it with one hand, keeping the other firmly wrapped around a spoke of _Windjammer_ ’s helm.

Arden crossed the quarterdeck to claim his mug and corner piece, biting into it with a long sigh. “I’m not sure any of us would still be standing if it wasn’t for you,” he admitted, taking a gulp of coffee and wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve.

“It’s my job to take care of my lads,” she said, smiling through her exhaustion. The care and feeding of _Windjammer_ ’s crew brought her great satisfaction, but it was hard work. It filled her heart to the brim whenever they remembered to voice their appreciation.

“Now that you have, you should rest along with your watch team.”

“There are still a few odds and ends down in the galley—”

“Leave them,” Arden said. “I’ll send Lars down later to tidy up. When was the last time you slept?”

“I’ve no idea,” she admitted.

“That settles it, then. You’ll . . .” he lost his thought mid-sentence, attention diverted by something off of their transom.

“I’ll what?” she prompted.

“Do you see that?” he asked, gesturing behind them with his mug. “Look at the tree line off our starboard quarter.”

Ehrin squinted at the dark shape of the river winding behind them, disappearing into the jungle here and there. At first she wondered whether or not Arden was seeing things, but after a few moments of concentration she saw a brief twinkle of light. “Yeh, I see it. Is it a ship, d’you think?” she asked.

“I can’t imagine what else it could be. We passed the last town a half a day ago.”

The light disappeared for a few moments, then twinkled through the trees once more. “They look to be a few bends behind us.”

“How many?” Callum asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“It’s hard to tell in the dark.”

“I’ve a mind to call for all hands,” Callum said.

“I’m not sure they’re approaching so fast.” Arden turned back towards her. “Go wake Félix; he’ll be a better judge of distance. Cap?”

“As he says, girl,” Callum nodded.

Ehrin set her mug down on a deck box and hustled down the midships companionway, making for the cabin that Félix had claimed. Halfway down the ladder the lantern above her went out – Arden’s work, most likely – bathing the below deck cabins in the soft silver glow of a waxing moon. Félix had dogged his door open to keep his cabin cool, and from the doorway she could see his still form stretched out across his bunk.

She almost tripped over his boots on her way across the cabin floor. It was unlike him to discard them without care; the fastidious habits of a military sailor were deeply ingrained in him, and the rest of his cabin was orderly and precise. He had been wavering on his feet with exhaustion at the end of their watch, however, and she supposed that he hadn’t had the energy to place them in their usual spot beneath the foot of his bunk.

Her suspicion was confirmed as she approached his bedside. He had fallen asleep fully clothed: Western-cut shirt buttoned all the way up to the hollow of his throat, belt still cinched low around his waist. He cut a handsome figure in his sleep – all regal angles and long lines – even if his mouth hung open and his breath came in soft half-snores. For a few moments she watched him sleep, fighting the impulse to leave him to his rest.

She shuffled forward until her legs bumped the edge of his bunk. Duty first: they could rest once they were at sea once again.

Leaning forward, Ehrin grasped his upper arms, giving him a firm shake. “Félix—”

She had barely spoken the first syllable of his name when he startled awake, body jerking upward and eyes flying open with a gasp. She saw his shoulders turn and ducked instinctively; his knuckles missed her jaw by a hair’s breadth. By the time she regained her bearings he had scrambled backwards, shoulders thumping against the bulkhead, disoriented and wild-eyed.

“ _Fángon_ ,” she swore, “I’m so sorry, Félix – I wasn’t thinking. Are you alright?”

His breath came out in ragged gasps, fingers balled in the bedding. He made no attempt at answering her.

“It’s me, Félix,” she whispered, inching forward to kneel on the bunk beside him. She reached a tentative hand out, giving his knee a gentle squeeze before moving to cover his fingers with her own.

It was some time before he mastered his hitching breath well enough to speak. When he did, his voice was hoarse. “ _You must not wake me like that_.”

“I know. I should have known better.”

He shook his head. “ _Forgive me. I almost struck you_.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” She slid from her knees to sit beside him, lacing her fingers through his as his fist relaxed, releasing its grip upon his sheets. “Besides, I ducked. I’d be cursing you something fierce if you’d managed to land it.”

Though he still appeared shaken, a hint of a smile crossed his features. “ _I wouldn’t have you take it as retribution for the time you struck me_.”

She shot a look at him. “Let’s not forget that you earned that one fair and square.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, a shaky laugh following her words. Though it was dark she could still make out the tentative expression that he wore, as though he was preparing himself to bear her scorn or her pity. She reached for him, arm wrapping around his neck to pull him towards her, fingers threading through the hair at his nape to guide his head onto her shoulder. He shifted his weight, arms winding around her waist to hold her close.

She was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of anger, one that was self-directed in part, but aimed mostly at the Januzian she had met in the street in Zaránd. _I should have knocked that weevil’s face in when I had the chance_. He deserved no less, for the wounds he had inflicted.

It pleased her that Félix was able to find comfort and calm in her presence, however, and she hoped that it was some compensation for all of the times she had managed to provoke this reaction from him. Stroking her fingers through his hair she took a steadying breath. “What did I do wrong this time?” she asked, voice low. She was unsurprised when he continued to respond in Belenese; it seemed that the effort of speaking Oceanic was still beyond him.

“ _Several straps are needed to hold a man to the board, the first of which runs across his chest and upper arms. A captor will cinch it tight to restrict his movement_.”

She let her fingers slide through his curls a final time before he pulled away to sit upright. “Would it have mattered if I’d grabbed you there when you were awake?”

“ _No._ ” He seemed calm once more, shoulders relaxed and breathing even. “ _Why did you wake me_?”

She had completely forgotten her original purpose, and sprung to her feet at his words. “We saw some lights in the distance, and thought it might be the pursuit we’ve been waiting for.”

Félix frowned, reaching for his boots. “ _They sent you to wake me_?”

“Arden and my Da, yeh.”

“ _You are off watch. You should be resting_.”

She watched him pull his boots on and stand, straightening his belt and associated weaponry. “We only just finished our meal. You’ve been down here for less than an hour.”

She moved to leave the cabin, but he stopped her in the doorway with an outstretched arm. “ _They will wonder what kept us_.”

“I’ll tell ‘em you’re grouchy when woken. You wouldn’t be the only one aboard who moves slowly on little sleep,” she said as he came to stand before her in the doorway.

“ _You would tell a half-truth_?” Shadows fell across his face, clinging to the sharp angles of his cheekbones.

“About this? Of course,” she murmured.

He had drawn closer as she spoke, fingertips brushing an errant lock of hair back behind her ear. It was a gesture that was quickly becoming familiar. When he spoke his voice was rough, choked. “ _You are good to me_.” His hand lingered against her cheek.

“Yeh,” she whispered, holding her breath as his dark eyes dropped to her mouth. His lips parted. “Félix.” She wondered if he could hear her heart thumping double-time in her chest.

He startled away from her at the sound of his name, letting out a shaky exhale as he turned towards the companionway. He stopped at the bottom of the ladder, running a hand through his hair before glancing back at her over his shoulder. “ _Thank you_.”

A smile curled her lips. “ _You’re welcome_.”

She followed him up the companionway ladder and aft towards the quarterdeck where Arden and her father waited. It turned out that they were too concerned with the faint lights that had appeared behind them to question Félix’s delayed arrival. Reclaiming her mug, Ehrin took a sip of her still-warm coffee before handing it mindlessly to Félix, who pressed her hand as he took it from her, an expression of unguarded gratitude crossing his features.

“How many, do you think?” Arden asked.

“ _I can’t be certain_ —” he broke off, switching back to Oceanic with visible effort. “I cannot be certain. The lights we see are from no more than four vessels, but that does not mean that more do not follow them.”

“Four ships?” Arden’s dismay was plain.

“That is a conservative estimate,” Félix admitted. “It is more likely that there are two or three, but I do not wish to leave you unprepared.”

“How long do we have?” Callum asked. “You said we’d probably reach the ocean by the afternoon tomorrow, didn’t you?”

Félix nodded, handing Ehrin’s mug back to her. “They have speed, but our lead is great. It will take them some time to catch us. How long, I do not know.”

“Do you think we’ll make it?” Ehrin asked.

He shrugged. “It will be close.”

Callum sighed. “That’s better than I had thought, at least.” He cast another glance over his shoulder. “Either way, if we can see them, then they can see us. We’ve put out our deck lights, and we’ll have no more until dawn tomorrow. Let them share our uncertainty. Until then let’s trim to get around this bend, and then I want both of you to rest up until your watch. We’ve no idea when the call for all hands will come, and we need to be in good form.”

Ehrin peered at the bend in the river ahead of them. They were entering the wider part of the Ashaia, where the river straightened out as it emptied into the delta. Coming around the last bend they had trimmed for a beam reach, but would be heading closer to the eye of the wind to make it the rest of the way downriver. “What point of sail, Da?” she asked.

“Close reach, for now. I’ll head up once you’re at your stations.”

“I’ll take the fore,” she offered, setting her mug down and heading forward. Taking the steps down to midships she passed Niko and Lars, who had caught Callum’s hand sign and were on their way to trim the stay and jib.

She had just gotten her line ready when her father began to turn upwind around the bend of the river, taking some of the pressure off of the sails and their lines. She hauled all of the slack out of the sail that she could, knowing that they would all need a second pair of hands to pull the sheets tight enough to achieve the proper sail shape.

She locked the line off once she had taken all the slack she could. The fore was still luffing, though not much. Up forward Niko and Lars worked together to stop the jib’s flogging. The thunderclap-luffing of the main had ceased as well, and shortly thereafter Félix appeared before the mast. Casting a glance up at the foresail, he hopped up onto the midships housetop.

“ _Tell me when I’ve done enough_ ,” he said.

With the amount of tension the line was under it took no small amount of strength to pass slack to her, and she found herself watching him as much as she watched the shape of the sail. He had the lean build that was ideal of this sort of work, long legs and whipcord arms working in tandem to fight the wind and pull the sail in until it stopped flapping.

Forcing her eyes off of him and onto the luff of the sail, she called for him to stop once the canvass was taut between the boom and gaff. “That’ll do,” she said, pulling out the last of the slack and making the line on its cleat.

He hopped down from the housetop, hesitating as he turned towards the quarterdeck. “The Captain ordered us below, but I will not see sleep for another turn of the watch. Is there more coffee?”

“There’s still hot water in the kettle, yeh. The larder is well-stocked as well, if you’re feeling peckish.”

“Lemon cakes?”

“On the top shelf,” she said, heading towards the quarterdeck steps. It was a testament to how well he had come to understand _Windjammer_ ’s workings that he made for the companionway himself, with no expectation that she would go and fetch them for him.

“Is there anything you want?” he asked, hesitating in the doorway.

“I’m stuffed, thanks – but you’d better bring one up for Arden. He’s addicted to the things. Make it a corner piece, mind you.”

A slow smile worked its way onto Félix’s face. “A corner piece. Very well, Miss Ehrin.”

With a nod, he disappeared below.

…

The day dawned overcast, sun hidden behind a layer of dark clouds. The wind blew hard from the south, warm and wet with rain, breaking the oppressive heat that had plagued them all week. The rain had come on and off since midnight, slicking the deck and turning the dog watch into an exercise in misery. Callum and Arden had each snatched a scant few hours of sleep when they weren’t required on deck, but found it difficult to close their eyes with the Western threat so close behind them.

Arden suspected that sleep had eluded all of them that night. Niko and Lars stood beside him at the helm, wrapped in oilcloths with dark smudges beneath their eyes. Niko stared over their transom at the vessels they could just make out as they rounded the bend in the river, possible now that the sun had begun its slow climb over the horizon. There were three of them, and they were chipping away at _Windjammer_ ’s lead at every tack.

“What d’you think?” Lars asked.

“They’ll catch us before the afternoon,” Arden replied.

“Think we’ll make it?”

Arden focused his attention before them once again, where Januz was hunched low on the horizon. The city was sprawled across the mouth of the river; beyond it lay the ocean and the chance to escape their pursuit. It would be a difficult run, but he didn’t think it impossible.

“They’re moving fast,” Niko said, a frown etched into his features.

“The wind is brisk this morning. If it stays this way, we could outrun them,” Arden replied.

Niko’s frown deepened. “But if we don’t, we’ll be outmaneuvered.”

“I’ve not yet given up hope.”

.

Open water was within reach when they were overtaken by the first of the Zarándrian vessels, its oarsmen propelling it downriver faster than the wind could pull _Windjammer_ to safety. The morning had been tense with inaction, the gap between vessels slowly closing until now, when the first warning shot from their pursuit fell mere feet short of _Windjammer_ ’s transom.

“Not good,” Lars muttered.

“I’m going to make this brief,” Arden said, taking his eyes off of their pursuers for a brief moment to regard the crew. “Ehrin, Niko, Jonah – keep your wits and weapons about you, but hopefully we won’t need to draw our cutlasses.”

“If it comes to that, we’ll have already lost,” Callum warned.

Arden nodded. “We need you three on the headsails. Watch your trim, and keep an eye on the quarterdeck for instruction. You’ve got to coax every last bit of speed out of our girl. Lars, you know what to do.”

Lars thumped the lower arm of his longbow against the deck in agreement. His spear was strapped to his back as a precaution, but his skill as a huntsman was what they would rely upon that afternoon. As a second warning shot fell short of their transom, he readied an arrow, scanning the deck of the foremost Zarándrian vessel to spot his target.

“The archer will be hidden in the prow,” Félix said from his post at the helm. Turning towards the rest of the crew, he added, “we are in shallow water. We must tack soon.”

“Take your posts, lads,” Callum echoed. Niko and Jonah scampered forward to the foredeck while Ehrin stayed midships, peering back around the companionway to wait for a sign from the helm.

“I think I have a spot on one of their archers,” Lars said, squinting over their stern.

“I see him as well. Let it fly, Lars.”

Lars’ shot missed the mark, embedding itself into the railing just forward of where the archer stood. “Should have lit it,” he muttered.

“Too much rain,” Arden shook his head, “the fire wouldn’t have taken.”

“Pity,” Félix muttered from the helm. “Are they all Zarándrian?”

“There are others.”

“Hm. If we are fortunate, not many are from Januz.”

“You’re hoping they don’t know these waters as well as you,” Callum surmised. “Ranael willing, they don’t.”

Félix rolled his eyes at the invocation, casting a glance over their port quarter. “What is their spread?”

“We have one chasing our tail and gaining right quick. The other two are fanned out in formation towards the center of the river,” Callum said.

“Heads down!” Arden called. They ducked, allowing another shot to sail over their heads and clatter down the stairs to midships.

Félix let out a colorful swear, looking over his shoulder as he righted himself. “We must tack.” He gave the sign up forward. “Let the sails come over hard.” Turning to Arden, he added, “You once told me that you had some control over the wind.”

“ _Some_ ,” Arden stressed.

“Now is the time to show it off,” Félix fired back, throwing the helm hard over.

Throwing his bow over a shoulder, Arden reached for the cap rail with a hand and took a steadying breath. The wind was blowing hard, making it no simple task to channel it. He pushed out with his enchantment, pressing at the gusts as they passed across their bow, forcing them to yield the barest few degrees to one side. The wind’s fingers slipped around their sails, slamming them all across to the other side of the deck with whip-crack efficiency. Arden struggled against the strength of the wind, fighting to hold it where he wanted long enough for _Windjammer_ to regain the speed it had lost during its tack.

“Heads down,” Callum called. Arden ducked behind a deck box as another volley passed overhead.

Bowing his head he tried to give _Windjammer_ one last puff of favorable wind but couldn’t manage it; the wind fought against him and, sapped of energy as he was, he was forced to release his grip. He used the deck box to pull himself to his feet, knees weak with exertion. Félix met his eyes with a sharp nod.

“Some?” Félix asked, brow raised, as _Windjammer_ hurtled towards the shipping channel on the far side of the river delta.

Lars huffed out a laugh, nocking another arrow. “Our boy here doesn’t like to talk about his enchantment. Wasn’t too long ago that we found out he could do more than light fires.”

“Yeh, and I’ll not be doing much more than that for a little while,” Arden replied, still out of breath.

The Zarándrian vessels had altered their course as _Windjammer_ tacked. The price of avoiding the shallows on the westerly side of the river was an exposed port flank, and arrows began to rain down on them. Félix crouched behind the helm, navigating by the tells on the mainsail alone.

“They’re lighting them,” Callum warned.

Arden grunted, nocking an arrow from his sheltered position on the other side of the deck box, aiming for an archer on a passing vessel. Before he released it, however, the archer fell with an arrow to his arm. Lars let out a whoop of victory, leaving Arden to choose another target. Unable to get a clear line of sight on any of the oarsmen, he aimed just inside the prow of one of the vessels.

“Jack!” Ehrin called. Arden let his arrow fly, grunting with grim satisfaction as it hit his target.

“The ratlines, Jack – above your head,” Callum said.

Arden looked up to see the distinct fletching of a Madestan arrow lodged into the tarred ratlines of their standing rig. It was one of the few lit arrows that had escaped both wind and rain and managed to strike a vulnerable part of their vessel. Reaching out with his enchantment he extinguished the small, smoldering fire, an act that proved to be surprisingly painful after the amount of energy he had expended on shifting the wind.

“There’s another one on our port forward pin rail,” Ehrin called from the bow.

“For Fángon’s sake,” Arden muttered, extinguishing the second flame with a wince. “We need to get off of this tack,” he said, turning to the helm where the top of Félix’s head was just visible over the binnacle.

“We’ve got two vessels coming around to follow us, the third’s staying in the center of the river,” Callum put in.

“They’re going to try to hold us here,” Arden said. “We won’t make it to the channel at this angle. They want to run us into the shoreline.”

“We must stay on this tack long enough to gain ground,” Félix replied. “There is a drop off on the other side of the river, but it is further down. If we tack now we will only find shallows.”

Arden knew the spot Félix spoke of, and tried to remember the details that Félix had added to his chart of the Ashaia’s delta. He looked back over the transom; two of the three Zarándrian vessels had followed them into the shipping channel, and were rapidly gaining ground. It was becoming increasingly difficult to outrun Madestan vessels in their own territory.

“Let’s sheet in tight, lads,” he called, turning forward to face the bow. “Get the stay and jib in as far as you can; try to give us a little more speed.” Niko, Ehrin, and Jonah leapt up to carry out his orders.

At the transom, Lars was keeping a pace of steady, precise fire that forced their opponents on their nearest vessel to keep their heads down. Scooting across the quarterdeck Arden joined him, taking careful aim towards the furled square sail set on the vessel’s sole mast. He let out a grunt as the arrow flew, lighting the fletching as it passed from his fingertips. Despite the rain his arrow remained lit, burying itself into the sail’s furl.

“That’ll distract them,” Lars said, shooting a sidelong grin his way. On board the enemy vessel, shouts of alarm rang out as the fledgling fire was noticed.

“I doubt it’ll catch,” Arden replied, nocking another arrow. From the way that _Windjammer_ had begun to heel, he could tell that they had picked up some speed by adjusting their trim. Good.

“Think they’ll risk it? I doubt it. Look at them running.”

Arden snorted, letting his second arrow fly. It missed his target, hitting one of the crosstrees. His third arrow aimed true, however, and remained lit in the furl next to the first. Although he doubted it would spread through the damp canvas, it was proving to be an admirable distraction. Some of the oarsmen had abandoned their posts in favor of climbing into the rigging, and the vessel was slowing. Arden allowed himself to feel a moment of triumph before looking forward to see the quickly-approaching riverbank.

“We must tack soon,” Félix warned.

“The vessel shadowing us to starboard . . .?” Callum asked.

“We will cross behind them if we tack now, but it will be close.”

Callum peered across the river. “And the shallows?”

“With luck, we will miss them.”

Callum made a face, not at all reassured by Félix’s words. Arden gave the sign to prepare for another tack. “Their transom will be off our port side, lads; best take cover while you can.”

Félix threw the helm over hard, raising a brow at Arden as he did. Arden shook his head mutely, crossing to the leeward side of the deck along with all of _Windjammer_ ’s sails. He wouldn’t be able to manipulate the wind a second time – it was blowing too hard, and he was working on too little rest. The tack went off without incident, but as they lost speed on the turn, one of the two vessels pursuing them began to barrel down on their transom. The other was still occupied with the smoldering fire lit in their mainsail, but Arden worried that this wouldn’t prove enough of a distraction; they were soon to be pinched by the enemy on two sides.

At the helm Félix’s lips were pulled into a snarl as he held _Windjammer_ on a tightrope-like course, falling off the wind just enough to duck behind the vessel that tried to hem them in to port, yet also pointing high enough to avoid being blown downwind into the treacherous shallows they had worked to avoid.

“Make ready,” he warned. “They will inundate us with flame.”

Félix knew river warfare well. The vessel to port began to turn after their tack, preparing to herd them back towards the shallows. As they drew near one another a rain of arrows began to fall around them, many of which remained lit over the short distance. They took cover as best as they could; Callum and Lars had ducked into the quarterdeck companionway, Ehrin was crouching amidships, and Niko and Jonah had their backs to the fo’c’sle hatch. Arden moved to kneel beside Félix to leeward of the binnacle.

“You weren’t kidding,” he muttered.

“We are fortunate for the rain and our current point of sail. They are finding it difficult to strike our canvas,” Félix replied.

“We’re downwind of them, now. Their arrows are staying lit,” Arden said, risking a glance around deck. Steadying his hand on the side of the binnacle, he swept out with his enchantment and doused the handful of smoldering arrows wedged into various parts of _Windjammer_ ’s standing and running rig before turning towards the Zarándrian vessel and pushing himself hard, snuffing out the torches they were using to light their arrows.

The answering wave of nausea informed him that he was in danger of overtaxing himself. Satisfied that he had momentarily halted the worst of the Madestan attack, he slumped back against the binnacle to rest and wait for the worst of the nausea to pass. Taking a long breath through his nose, he tipped his head back just in time to watch an arrow pass straight through their mainsail. The nausea abated, leaving crushing exhaustion behind in its wake. He sighed.

“Well, that’ll be another patch job, then,” Callum said from his perch in the companionway.

Lars, noticing the abrupt drop in Madestan fire, emerged from the companionway to have a look around. “Did you take their fire from them?” he asked, turning towards Arden. “They’re running around like headless chickens.”

“Good,” Arden said, rubbing at a temple with two fingers.

From the helm, Félix regarded him with an unreadable expression. “That took much from you.”

“I’ll survive. Just get us away from them; it’ll be some time before I can do it again.” Arden pushed himself up to a squat with some effort. The vessel was keeping pace at their flank, forcing them to remain on their current tack. Another vessel was right on their heels. The third had finally extinguished the fire in their main, and had taken up the chase once more. “Do you think they’ll try to board us?” he asked.

“Not until we are stuck.” Félix nodded towards their bow. The mouth of the river lay before them, but they were not free by any stretch of the imagination; white-capped breakers lined the water off their bow, marking the shallow-water reef that prevented ships from entering or exiting on the westerly side of the Ashaian delta.

“We need to tack back into the shipping channel,” Callum said.

“How?” Arden gestured off their port beam where the Zarándrian vessel had pulled level with them. “If we turn, we’re going to ram them.” _Windjammer_ was larger, but ramming the enemy would do them no good; it would stop them dead in the water as surely as any shoal or riverbank would.

“Better than running aground,” Lars muttered.

Arden pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think through the exhaustion that threatened him. Summoning the image of the annotated chart, another possibility occurred to him. “There’s a cut in the reef ahead, isn’t there?”

Félix pursed his lips. “There is, but it is very shallow.”

Arden was aware that the tide was on its way out, and thought about the high and low water marks Félix had made on the chart. Even if they could find the channel in the murky, sediment-filled waters of the delta, there was no guarantee they wouldn’t bottom out before reaching the ocean. “What are our other options?”

“If we run for the shipping channel, we will have to tack now and attempt to pass them to their stern once more,” Félix replied.

“We’d pick up speed by falling off the wind,” Lars offered.

While that was true, it wouldn’t give them much of an advantage; the two vessels behind them would have little difficulty heading them off if they attempted to double back towards the shipping channel. “That won’t work.”

“You are most likely correct,” Félix said, glancing up at their main and turning _Windjammer_ closer to the wind. He flashed the sign to sheet in to Ehrin, Niko, and Jonah.

Arden considered the line of breakers before them once more. “We’re not yet at slack low tide. _Windjammer_ could make it through the cut.”

“Have you been through it before?” Callum asked.

“Once, some years ago,” Félix nodded, eyes trained forward. “We would not have to tack to reach it, which is fortunate. It is off to starboard.”

“How deep is it?”

“At the moment, I would guess nine feet.”

“Nine feet? Are you _mad_?” Callum’s voice jumped the better part of an octave.

Arden gestured at the three river vessels in close pursuit. “What other choice do we have?” he asked. “The real question is, can we find it?”

Félix’s grin was all teeth. “I can find it.”

Callum shook his head. “You and your cockamamie schemes, Jack, I swear. If aught happens to my lady—”

Arden met his eyes. “It’s our best chance.”

Callum let out a long sigh, eyeing the reef ahead of them. “May Ranael guide us.”

“We will have to fall off to a close reach,” Félix put in.

Arden nodded. “Do it.”

As Félix began to turn the wheel Arden strode to the quarterdeck steps, barking the order to sheet out to a close reach. Whirling on his heel, he turned to Lars. “We need to get our centerboard up.”

“Aye,” Lars nodded, darting down the companionway.

“We must go in hard. There will be little room for error,” Félix said, looking over one shoulder, then the other for a few moments each. “The entrance is small and then it grows wide like a funnel, becoming very shallow before the drop off on the other side of the reef flat. Many wrecks are had here.”

“Ranael willing, we won’t be one of them,” Callum muttered, touching his brow.

“The vessel on our flank is turning towards us,” Arden said.

“They see our course,” Félix surmised.

“Will they try to ram us, or will they follow us through the channel?”

“Does it matter?”

“Don’t get cocky now, lad,” Callum implored.

Félix’s smile was fierce. “We are almost there.” At his words _Windjammer_ began to heel over further, a sure sign that Lars had begun to crank their centerboard up into the hull.

“Heads down!”

This was Ehrin’s shout, and they reacted just in time; a handful of arrows passed the helm where Félix had been standing.

“Almost got a haircut, there,” Arden said, readying his bow to return fire.

Félix’s grin sharpened. “They doubt their ability to make it through the channel. Why else aim for the helmsman?”

The breakers were almost at their bow now, and sure enough, Arden could see a thin opening in the line of foaming white that marked the reef flat just ahead of them. Off their beam the Zarándrian vessel had turned away, preparing to double back and follow them through the cut. The vessel that was chasing their transom had lined itself up to follow along in _Windjammer_ ’s wake. As they approached the channel, Arden could see how hard the oarsmen were fighting against the river’s current, which threatened to dash them against the reef.

“Thank Ranael for the wind,” Callum was muttering, and for good reason; the wind pushed them upriver while the current pushed them down, allowing Félix to maintain control of the helm and keep them balanced on a knife’s edge as they traversed the narrow passage out to sea.

“Heads down!”

Lars was the one delivering the warning this time, returning from midships with his longbow at the ready. They ducked, but only one of the handful of arrows headed their way crossed the deck, burying itself into the side of a deck box.

“We’re pulling away,” Arden said, trying to keep untimely hope from rising up within him. They had only just entered the cut, and as the river water began to mix with seawater and run clear, Arden could see just how little margin for error they had; based on how shallow the water around them appeared, he was surprised they hadn’t already touched bottom.

“How’s our clearance?” Callum asked.

Arden shook his head. “I wouldn’t look over the side, if I were you.” Callum cursed under his breath.

Lars, who had resumed his post at the transom, pointed out behind them. “We’ve still got one on our tail and one in the river, but I think the other is stuck.”

Arden followed his arm to see the vessel that had flanked them stopped dead in shallow water, oars beating at the surface with futile fury. The current had lodged them in muck on the other side of one of the reef flats.

“They’ll be there until the tide comes in,” Arden smirked. The archers in the prow of the vessel behind them fired another shot, but it fell short of their transom.

“How close is our pursuit?” Félix asked, brow lined with concentration.

“Falling further behind as they fight the current.”

“We are reaching the top of the reef flat. It begins to shallow out to port.”

Arden glanced overboard, cringing at how he could make out individual coral heads – even the occasional fish – in the clear, shallow water below them. “Lucky the wind pushes us to starboard, then.” He peered forward, spotting darker water off in the distance where the drop off – and safety – lay.

“Breakers off our bow,” Ehrin called from up forward. She and Niko had taken bow watch; her hands were clutched white-knuckled over the windward pin rail. Arden flashed her a sign to acknowledge that they’d heard as Félix began to coax _Windjammer_ to make the slightest adjustment to starboard to round the few coral heads that popped up in their path.

Arden held his breath as the coral heads passed, moving with _Windjammer_ ’s rolls as they traversed the border between river and ocean. The familiar swells grew in intensity, rocking them more and more as they headed further out to sea. It was a comforting feeling, one which calmed some of the tension that ran through him. They were almost free.

His head snapped around as Callum let out a particularly vicious curse, turning in time to see the Zarándrian vessel behind them shudder with impact. Félix, who dared not look away from the channel before him, demanded, “What is it?”

“They look like they’ve struck reef,” Arden said, moving back to stand beside Lars. Sure enough, the gap between their vessels only grew, and some of the panicked shouts of the Zarándrian vessel’s crew reached them even from that ever-increasing distance.

“They’re starting to list,” Callum said. “Are they taking on water?”

“I told you it was easy to wreck a vessel on this reef,” Félix replied, smile broadening. He turned to Arden, nodding at the water off of their starboard bow. “We have reached the ocean.”

The reef receded away from beneath them, water darkening as they finally reached deep water once more. Arden shut his eyes, touching two fingers to his brow. They had made it. _We’re on our way, Val_. Lars’ shout of victory, however, pressed him back into action.

“We need to drop our centerboard again, lest the wind overpower us. We don’t want to ride with a rail in the water.”

“Aye,” Lars said, making back for the companionway.

“Let’s not get cocky,” Callum warned. “The last of the enemy set their course down the shipping channel. They still hope to intercept us.”

“We must tack. Beam reach,” Félix interrupted, flashing the sign up forward.

“We can outpace them on a beam reach,” Arden said, readying the mainsail sheet to adjust to the new point of sail.

With the helm hard over to port they began their turn, sails crossing the centerline of the vessel. As they did Arden began to let the main out, an eye on the position of the boom, until they were properly trimmed for their new course. They were headed due east – a straight shot back down the coast towards Anaphe. _Windjammer_ began to pick up speed now that they were on their most favorable point of sail, increasing by increments as Lars continued to crank down the centerboard from below deck.

“We’re flying, now,” he said, moving to stand beside Félix at the helm.

Ehrin, who knew she was no longer needed up forward to trim sails, took the steps to the quarterdeck in a single buoyant leap. “Look,” she said, pointing off to port as she came to a stop before them.

Sure enough, the last of their adversaries had hit the same rough seas that they had encountered as they escaped the cut. The Zarándrian vessel, however, was not built for ocean sailing. The high winds and squally weather made it impossible for them to make headway, let alone chase down _Windjammer_ on her fastest point of sail.

“They’re turning around,” Arden said, bone-deep relief rushing through him, supplanting his exhaustion with a brief wave of euphoria.

“We did it!” Ehrin laughed, throwing her arms about his neck. He spun her around, wobbling around the quarterdeck between her added weight and _Windjammer_ ’s rolls.

“Well done, lads,” Callum said as Niko, Jonah, and Lars rejoined them on the quarterdeck. “And you as well Félix. I think it’s safe to say we’d have had a rough time of it without your aid.”

“Hm,” Félix grunted, uncomfortable with the praise. He stepped away from the helm while steadying it with an outstretched hand; Callum relieved him. “Your crew sails well,” he finally said, favoring the men with a sharp nod of his head.

“Paying yourself a compliment now, are you?” Callum laughed. At Félix’s uncomprehending look, he raised a brow. “After all, looks to me like you’re a part of it, now.”

Even Niko agreed with this statement, slapping Félix on the back with a fierce nod. “You haven’t lost your touch, Belen.”

Unsure of what to say Félix inclined his head in a silent show of gratitude.

“Let’s have our meal then, lads – I’m famished,” Ehrin said.

“Sounds like just the thing,” Callum replied, one hand on his stomach, the other on the wheel.

“I’ll hand up your mugs through the galley hatch.”

Félix stopped her with an outstretched arm before she reached the ladder. He regarded her for a long moment; she tilted her head, a silent question. “ _You were looking after me_ ,” he said.

She knew what he meant – that her eyes had been on the helm during their last downriver rush. “Yeh,” she said, “I was. It seems to have become a habit of mine.”

“ _You have sharp eyes, my little warrior. Thank you_.”

A smile tugged at her lips, hand pressing his for a brief moment before she pulled away and headed for the companionway. He turned from her retreating form to face the helm. Callum leveled him with an inscrutable look.

“To Anaphe, lads.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who has read, kudos'd, and written me amazing/inspiring/wonderful comments: I appreciate each and every one of you more than you can possibly know.
> 
> Double thank you to those who have helped with edits.
> 
> Make that a triple, actually.

_The Season of Renewal  
Illár the 7; 2422_

Fiona had left the Regent’s chambers some time earlier at his behest, promising that she would make an attempt at sleep. Valory’s Northern officer had led her to her chambers where she paced until she was certain he had departed for other duties. When his footsteps receded and all was silent she crept back out again, taking the long corridor that led from her wing to the great hall.

The hall was one of the few vantage points that offered an unobstructed view of the square, the lower levels, and the settlements beyond. While most rooms looked eastward to the Gulf, the balcony off of the great hall had been intended as a place where Anaphe’s rulers could address their people. The hall was deserted now; an eerie hush had taken the city when the enemy had first been sighted on the horizon, and those who hadn’t hunkered down in preparation made for the garrison with quiet urgency.

Valory had anticipated the arrival of the enemy for some time, and his estimations had been accurate. As darkness fell reports crossed their desks of Dramorian soldiers who rode on the backs of beasts, and of vile creatures who broke ranks to destroy all that laid in their path. Pushing open the heavy wrought doors to the balcony, Fiona could see for herself what the reports had described. A glow of fire and thick, dark smoke on the horizon gave warning of the sort of treatment Anaphe would receive at the hands of their enemies.

She couldn’t smell the fires yet, but knew that Anaphe’s outer settlements had been set upon by Zathár’s armies, and was thankful that Valory had so heartily embraced her suggestion of evacuation. Swallowing down the tremor of fear she felt – for her sisters, for herself, for her people – she turned away from the balcony and fled from the destruction that war had brought to the peninsula, a tight knot lodged in her breast.

Her feet carried her through the palace and out to the square of their own volition, passing through deserted streets and archways where once the sound of chatter and revelry would have filled even the late evening hours. The city was empty of its people – of what made Anaphe what it was – and for all that Fiona felt as though its soul was missing, enough citizens remained behind that the constant press of fear and worry hammered at her head and heart during all of her waking moments.

As she reached the entrance to the upper levels of the garrison she encountered a complement of guards, all of whom hastened to salute her as she passed.

“Out so late, my Lady?” asked one of Malcolm’s lieutenants.

“There is much work yet to be done to keep our city safe,” she replied.

The lieutenant hesitated at her words. “I suppose you’re seeking the Captain, my Lady, but I’m afraid he just retired to get a spot of rest before the morrow.”

“Believe me, I don’t relish the thought of interrupting him,” she said, “but there is . . . a matter that cannot keep.”

“Of course, my Lady. His rooms are adjacent to his offices, just around the corner.”

She forced a smile as they saluted her once more. “May the wind be at your back, soldiers – and may Illen watch over you tomorrow.”

“And you, my Lady.”

Traversing the familiar corridor towards Malcolm’s office, she was glad that her words had brought some measure of satisfaction to the lieutenant and his men. It was all that was left within her power to provide; the rest was out of her hands.

The door to Malcolm’s office was shut but not locked, and she navigated its interior by memory and moonlight. On the far side of his desk was another doorway beyond which she had never passed. She rapped her knuckles against the doorframe. Teeth worrying at her lower lip, she forced her nerves from the forefront of her thoughts.

She heard shuffling on the other side of the door before it swung inward, revealing Malcolm’s disheveled frame. A hot blush rose in her cheeks when she realized that he wore no more than a nightshirt, dark hair hanging unbound around his shoulders.

“My Lady, what news?” he asked without preamble, peering into the office past her shoulder. When he saw no others with her, she heard him draw a sharp breath through his nose. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’ve not seen you since I received word of the enemy on the horizon. I—” she trailed off. She knew why her feet had taken her to see him, but found it impossible to voice such thoughts aloud.

“My men, Fiona,” he said, fist white-knuckled around the door handle.

“Your lieutenant thinks I’m here in an official capacity.”

“And you’re not,” he said, voice low.

“I had to see you.”

He shook his head, turning away from her. “You shouldn’t have taken the risk.”

She could feel the war that waged within him: his pleasure at seeing her, his affection for her, his trepidation over being discovered, his fear over what the next morning would bring. Under all of it, however, she could feel his desire for her – and that was enough to spur her on.

She stepped past him into his quarters, which were sparer than she had imagined. A wash stand and a chest of drawers stood against the far wall beside a narrow window. At the back of the room a simple cot was turned down, butting up against a rack filled with the smart uniforms of the City Guard. She heard the door shut behind her, and turned to face him.

“You know what we are to face tomorrow,” she murmured.

Malcolm shook his head, jaw tight. “I can’t hear talk of this.”

“And I can’t face such danger – death, even – with the knowledge that I have so denied myself in life.”

He stepped away from her, hands balled into fists at his sides. “I can’t take this from you.”

She closed the gap between them, anger rising within her. “No, you can’t. But will you refuse it, even if it is freely given? For it is mine to give, and my decision to make – not yours alone.”

He let out a breath, turning back towards her. “Don’t speak with such ire. Can’t you see that I don’t do this to hurt you, but to save you from hurt?”

“I know that,” she said. She willed her voice to be steady, meeting his eyes. “You have appointed yourself my protector, but that isn’t all that you are. I have known such happiness with you, Malcolm. I would know you all of my days, viceroy or not. You deny me to save me from hurt, but the denial itself is what hurts – for I wonder whether there is something about me that displeases you.”

A choked noise escaped his throat. “Gods, Fiona – you must know that there is nothing about you that displeases me.”

“Then show me.” She stepped forward, molding herself to him. Through the nightshirt he was furnace-hot against her.

She could feel the desperation spiking within him, and knew that his resolve was crumbling. His fingers shook as they came up to cup her jaw, tilting her face up so they rested forehead-to-forehead. She felt nerves flutter feather-light through her and knew them to be her own rather than any transference from Malcolm. His surety calmed her. She let out a long breath.

“You’re nervous,” he whispered.

“I thought I was the Empath,” she replied, lips pulling into a hesitant smile.

“Maybe,” he allowed, a gentleness to his tone that she knew was reserved for her alone. “But I’m right, aren’t I?” At her silence, he continued, “You can touch me, Fi.”

Hesitant yet emboldened by his encouragement she reached up, delving her fingers into the prize that was his thick, unbound hair. Pressing up onto her tiptoes she slid her nose alongside his in a caress, tension thickening as the gap between them shrank to a hair’s breadth. “I want you,” she whispered, lips barely brushing his as they moved.

She felt a snap reverberate through her as the last of his restraint broke; suddenly his mouth was upon hers, insistent, demanding, finally as mindful of his own desires as he was of hers.

He kissed her like a man parched of thirst, clutching her to his chest with an intense, greedy need. It was a different touch than she had ever before experienced. A heavy sort of want wrapped around her insides, sitting low in her belly. Though she couldn’t put what she wanted to words, she knew that she had to have more of him: his skin bare to her touch, his mouth upon hers, his body covering her own. She pulled back before she could rethink her intentions, breath sounding labored to her own ears. Malcolm’s dark eyes were trained on her, wide and intense, as she unwound the knotted sash at her waist and slipped her robes from her shoulders, letting the soft silk pool at her feet.

“Gods,” he murmured as he reached for her, fingertips blazing a trail down the side of her neck, across her collarbone, and along the low-cut seam of her shift. Lips followed fingertips, drawing a gasp from her as he kissed the hollow between her breasts.

He pressed forward at that, walking her backwards towards the bed, cradling her to his tall, broad frame with one hand at her waist and another at her nape. She sat when her thighs hit the back of his bunk, reaching for him, sliding backwards until her head rested upon his lone pillow. He walked himself over her on hands and knees, letting her draw him closer with fingers twisted in his nightshirt.

She hummed with satisfaction when he finally lowered his weight against her, cheeks lighting with a fierce blush when she realized that she could feel him hard against the inside of her thigh. She tucked her face into the crook of his neck, a distinct combination of trepidation and curiosity overcoming her; before she could question her actions she found herself reaching down to touch him through his nightshirt. She flushed hot at the sound of his bitten off gasp, at the feel of him beneath her fingertips, at how his hips rolled to press against her. It was a heady thing, the thought that she could hold him within her hand.

Emboldened she strained up into a kiss, pressing the heel of one hand up against him, the other tugging at his nightshirt with renewed urgency. He pulled away from her with a low groan, kneeling up to tug his nightshirt over his head. She explored the revealed expanse of skin, drawn immediately to the fresh scar that scoured his shoulder.

“Fi,” he murmured, and she realized that he was feeling self-conscious about its ragged edges, standing smooth and pale against his nut-brown skin.

“Hush,” she whispered, dropping a trail of kisses to his shoulder in response.

He murmured her name once more, pulling her up towards him, hand hovering over the hem of her soft silken shift where it stretched over her thigh. She tilted her hips up to allow him better access, shutting her eyes and letting his bone-deep _want_ suppress any fear she felt as she bared herself before him for the first time.

She shivered despite the heat of the room, a shiver that he soothed by pressing her back into the mattress, lips on hers once more. The heat and feel of him was overwhelming, melting any question of discomfort or doubt from her mind. It was easy to let go of her thoughts and drift with new sensations as they rocked against one another, his mouth hot upon her, calloused hands tracing trails over her skin.

She made a noise of disappointment as he pulled back to regard her, hips still rocking against her in long, languid rolls. She tensed, a fresh wave of hesitance making her stomach clench in anticipation. Reaching up to touch the side of Malcolm’s face, she knew that the nerves were no hers alone. “I’m not going to change my mind, you know,” she whispered.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Empath.”

“Don’t make me beg you, Malcolm.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, “that would be unbecoming for a viceroy.”

She giggled as his hands ghosted over her sides where she was ticklish, feeling his amusement echo through her. “Then I suppose you’ll have to kiss me again, to let me save face.”

He did. She wrapped herself around him in an attempt to pull him closer, lacing her fingers behind his neck, wrapping her legs around his waist. She forced herself to be present in that moment, letting go of cares and fears and niggling insecurities, reveling in the intensity of all that lay between them as it built.

He stilled. A noise of startled protest escaped her, and she forced herself to focus on his face. A hand strayed to her hip, thumb moving in soft little caresses over her waist. All at once she realized what he was asking for. Meeting his eyes, she nodded.

She had heard rumors of all kinds, of course – that it would be painful, that it would be pleasurable, that it would be messy, uncomfortable, incredible. She hadn’t understood how it could be all of those things at once and yet it was; there were the awkward missteps that came with learning something new; the profound intimacy that came with such vulnerability and trust; the desire that was surprising in its intensity; the exhilaration that came from bringing pleasure and satisfaction to the one she loved.

He was upon her and within her, forehead pressed against hers, free hand caressing every inch of her that he could reach. She squirmed against the sheets beneath him, eyes shut, warm all over and feeling uncommonly shy. Though there was something foreign about being with him like this, the pleasure still coursed through her, blooming from deep within her body and spreading outward to set her alight.

For all the newness, for each occasional flush of embarrassment, she still knew without a doubt that she was safe with him, that she could lean on him and trust him to lead her through each new experience and sensation.

Something almost like a shiver wracked her frame, making her legs jump and her toes spasm. Her head tipped back, a noise escaping her throat that would have been utterly humiliating in any other context, yet for some reason it only served to stoke the flame within her still higher. She was breathless in its wake, fingers tightening in and tugging at Malcolm’s hair as everything suddenly became too much.

He bent to kiss her, catching her gasped breaths against his lips as he slowed, moving against her with long, lazy rolls of his hips. Even scrambled as her thoughts were she could still pick up on the background buzz of pride, affection, arousal, smugness—

“Are you—” She sounded a bit odd to her own ears, but forged on regardless. “Are you _pleased_ to have reduced me to such a wreck?”

A muffled laugh ghosted across her neck as he pressed a kiss there. “Name a man in the Eastern world who wouldn’t be.”

Smiling, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders to pull him close. He was warm, covered in a sheen of sweat, but she didn’t mind. She felt as though she was floating, drifting on a warm Anaphean tide as his pace increased once more. She stretched, blissful, as he sought his own pleasure in her, finding it with a low noise buried in her skin.

His arms gave out, weight coming to rest on her, slick with exertion. She let out a soft hum of contentment, fingertips threading through the damp hair at the nape of his neck. Shutting her eyes, she hovered between sleep and wakefulness, reveling in the delight of lying beside him at last. She fought against the sated lethargy that tugged at her mind, wanting to savor this moment indefinitely. In spite of her efforts, however, the waking world dimmed around her and she drifted off to sleep.

…

Sybina waited alone in the dark of her room for the appointed hour to come. They had decided to wait until all of the occupants of the Regent’s wing had bedded down for the night before meeting. The timing was close, precise, but Samir had worried that any attempt to procure the poison further in advance would have caused word of suspicion to reach the palace.

The exchange would happen that night under the cover of darkness. She would take the vial Samir had dutifully prepared and slide it into the newly-sewn pocket inside her bodice. She would go to her husband, then – knock on his door and feign fear, feign sleeplessness—

It was difficult to imagine going to him now, knowing all she knew.

The moonlight bathed her room in a silver glow. Her kitten was silhouetted upon the windowsill, ears alert as he tracked the progress of nightbirds across the courtyard. Sybina reached for him, petting at his cheeks until he consented to climb into her lap and offer comfort. He was a sweet creature, so happy to be in her presence, so happy to curl into her arms—

So unlike the man who had given him to her. Thoughts of Valory still caused a painful clench within her breast. It hurt, this spurned love, hurt more than anything she had before experienced. She longed for the day when she would hear his name and feel nothing – no hurt, no bitterness, no anger – but such a thing seemed unfathomable. She had told Samir it would take time and she knew that to be true in her heart of hearts, but still struggled to believe that there would come a day that thoughts of him would no longer be tender to the touch.

Her kitten stretched out in her lap, rumbling with contented purrs.

This would be the last night she would ever see her husband. There was something relieving about that, about closing the door on her impossible dream of ruling Anaphe with Valory at her side. The thought of remaining married to a man who had betrayed her for his Steward was repugnant. At the same time, the thought of him dying at her hands made her feel as though her stomach was tying itself into knots. She was caught in an unwieldy paradox in which she was halfway healed: halfway between love and hate.

Halfway was not nearly enough to take a life with a clean conscience. She felt the cold press at the back of her thoughts and knew that Zathár was scrutinizing her every move that night. It was wise of him, she knew; for if it weren’t for his eyes upon her, she wasn’t sure she could go through with this plan.

One hand strayed from the soft fur of her kitten to wrap around her mother’s locket. She had to remain steadfast in her cause, dauntless in the face of even the most difficult of challenges.

She would procure the draught from Samir in two hours’ time. She would walk back to her chambers and pass into the Regent’s rooms through the doors that they shared. He would wake when she entered, and she would beg for comfort, would tell him that she was afraid to be left alone on the eve of battle. He would make room for her to slide into bed beside him and she would crawl beneath the covers, watching and waiting for him to drift off to sleep . . .

She shut her eyes, holding her kitten tight and burying her nose in his soft fur. The kitten let out a soft chirrup but let her cuddle him close, used to this behavior as he was.

How had it come to this? How had it come to begging her way into her husband’s bed with duplicitous intentions? Would she be able to carry out her orders when he finally turned to his side, curled around his pillow, offering his back to her in a show of both great trust and great disinterest? She shook her head. It would be no easy thing.

But could she betray her God, her family, Dramor – all for the sake of sparing a man who would love his Steward before her, who would bow to Illen before Zathár?

No. She was Zathár’s chosen, and she was steadfast in her cause.

Sybina continued to pet her kitten, eyes unfocused in the dark, waiting for the cathedral bells to toll.

…

Fiona woke slowly, the last vestiges of a dream clinging to her thoughts, filling them with visions of fire and war. She stirred, rolling toward the protective warmth of Malcolm’s arm, tucking her cheek into the soft stretch of skin between shoulder and collarbone. Despite the deep swell of contentment she felt waking next to him – something she had so longed for – the disquieting thread of her dreams wouldn’t dissipate. She was pulled the last few steps to wakefulness when she realized the thoughts and fears she bore witness to were not her own.

Propping herself up on an elbow she watched her lover’s face, still in repose. His thoughts were unguarded, and her talent waxing; the two conspired to inform her that his attempt at sleep was feigned. When she let herself peer closer at the long, darting lines of thought buzzing around him, she understood why.

Just as his thoughts occurred to him in a jumble of impressions, images, and half-formed ideas, so too did they present themselves to her. Over the past weeks she had come to learn that her experiences with a man like Valory – accustomed as he was to living with an Empath – were unusual: Valory, when he wished, would organize his thoughts for her benefit as he had when she first spoke to him of her uncle. Malcolm had neither such practice nor such intentions, however, and as a result his mind proved more difficult to follow.

His scattered thoughts had turned to the upcoming siege. Bits and pieces of imagined scenarios spun through her mind’s eye, a variety of strategies Malcolm had conceived in order to counter the might of Zathár’s army. Yet for all of his efforts Malcolm’s thoughts were not hopeful, and time and again she saw the twisted creatures and Dramorian warriors of his imagination breaching the gates and laying waste to their city, destroying all that lay in their path.

She felt his fear, his guilt at being ill-prepared, the worry he had for his men: especially those fresh faces whose hands were yet untried in combat. She felt his anger and helplessness over defending citizens whose loyalty he doubted. She felt his distress at knowing that she had chosen to remain in Anaphe with the Regent and the last of the council, and that when the attack came, he would not be at her side to protect her.

Above all, however, she felt the dark, dense certainty that underlay all of his fears; for Malcolm had played out scenario after scenario in his mind, and no longer had faith that he would live to see the war come to an end and peace reign in Anaphe once more.

It was a hard thought for her to accept, yet she knew that it had plagued him for days – if not weeks. They were trapped at the end of the peninsula without hope of overland escape. If help did not come, it would only be a matter of time before the city fell, and there were more bodies than there were spaces on the few remaining vessels in Anaphe’s harbor. Some would have to be left behind.

She couldn’t stop her arms from wrapping around him, pulling him in and holding tight. She refused to admit the practicality of his musings and the justifiable nature of his fears – not when she, as a member of a noble House, had a spot on one of those final few vessels. It was a spot that he wouldn’t be granted. Malcolm was everything to her. If she couldn’t ensure his safe passage from the city—

Malcolm shifted, abandoning the pretense of sleep and drawing her close, lips pressing against her brow. Peering up at him, she could make out his features in the dark, eyes nearly black as they regarded her. She hesitated, waiting for him to speak his mind, but it soon became clear that no words were forthcoming. The pleasure that filled him at the sight of her spiked, then receded. She felt his mood turning dark once more and his thoughts became muted, as though he had put up a veil between them to discourage her from prying.

She surged forward to press a kiss at the corner of his lips. His hands clutched at her waist, trembling with a confusing jumble of thought and emotion that resisted her attempts at unraveling. He loved her. He despaired of leaving her. That much she knew with the same certainty that she knew her own name. But for the rest—

She pulled back, meeting his eyes once more, haunted by what she saw there. _Defeat_.

“I’m glad to be here with you,” she whispered.

He shut his eyes. “As am I, even if it is a selfish sort of gladness.”

She knew why he considered it such, but that was a point they had never agreed upon. Attempting to lighten the mood, she jested, “It seems an omission to say that only soldiers enjoy company before battle. Viceroys, I’ve found, take just as much comfort from being near those they love.”

He opened his eyes, a half-sad smile stealing across his features. “I’m pleased you refused to let me deny you, then.” He ran a hand through her unbound hair, fingers snared by tangles. “You are precious to me, Fiona. You must know that.”

She nodded, not trusting herself with words. He seemed to be wrestling with them as well, opening his mouth and aborting several thoughts with a sigh. “Your talent—” he began.

“Is strong these days. Strong enough to worry me.”

“Do my thoughts worry you?”

She bit her lip. “I didn’t realize until now what macabre predictions you were harboring. Perhaps it is the touch that makes it difficult for you to hide them from me.”

“We are in a difficult position. If help does not come soon—”

“There is still hope of escape,” she interrupted, staving off the dark turn of thought that threatened.

“For some, yes.”

She swallowed hard. “I know you will fight well, and bravely. You could never do aught else. But please, tell me you will keep yourself safe.”

“I can’t lie to you.”

“If the city falls—”

“A captain never abandons his ship, Fiona,” he murmured.

She felt tears sting her eyes. “You sound like you’re saying goodbye.”

“I’m only telling you that I won’t make a promise I cannot keep.”

They fell silent at that, clinging to one another, Fiona following the veiled shade of Malcolm’s thoughts as they spun. She found it difficult to make for the door, even though she knew that she shouldn’t tarry. It was only when she got the impression that he had begun to worry over seeing her safely back to her rooms that she mustered the will to sit up.

“I should go,” she sighed.

“It wouldn’t do for you to be here when my men come to wake me,” he agreed, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

“I wish it weren’t so.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “We’ve both often wished such a thing, haven’t we?”

She pressed his hand in turn before standing, self-consciousness seizing her as she became acutely aware of her nudity. She pulled her shift over her head in a hurry, the soft garment staying some of her nerves as she located the blue robes of her father’s House in the middle of the floor. He rolled from the bed as she wrapped the robe around her shoulders, groping around for his own clothing, yanking on his nightshirt before coming to stand behind her.

She jumped when his palms landed on her shoulders, warm atop the thin silk of her robe. She finished tying her sash and reached up to do something about the mess that her hair had become, but he stayed her hands. She let out a quiet sigh of contentment as his fingers began to work out the worst of the tangles before beginning a simple plait.

“Did your sister teach you this?” she asked.

“She did. I used to do this for her when she was just a little thing.”

“It was the same with my sisters,” she said, leaning into his hands.

“Yes, but you weren’t braiding a little girl’s hair while wearing the uniform of the City Guard,” he replied.

“Oh, to be a fly on that wall.”

“My father got a good laugh out of it,” he agreed, placing a kiss upon her neck and stepping back.

She steeled her resolve before spinning to face him, fighting the desire to hole up with him in his room and refuse to leave.

She found him handsome even in his nightshirt, an undignified garment that hung to his knees and revealed dark calves and long-toed feet. She had never seen a man’s bare legs before, and they seemed both silly and scandalous in equal parts. Malcolm must have watched her gaze fall to the ground and taken a guess at her thoughts, for he shuffled in discomfort, toes flexing against the tile floor.

“Not quite the same as my uniform, is it?” he asked, pulling a face.

“The trappings don’t make the man. You know that,” she replied, shuffling forward until he wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head against his shoulder, peering up at him from a close distance, fighting against the swell of sadness in her breast that she knew to be amplified by his own thoughts and feelings.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured, thumb tracing the edge of her cheekbone.

“Like what?”

“Like I filled the oceans with water in Ranael’s name. I’m not sure I deserve it.”

She lifted her head, standing up on her tiptoes to press her forehead against his. “Aren’t I meant to be the judge? You’re the best man that I know, and presumptuous of me though it may be, I wager that Ranael himself would agree.”

Her words earned her another kiss, but not a smile. Malcolm was certain that this would be the last time he would see her. He pulled back, meeting her eyes.

“I hope I do you proud,” he said, voice thick.

“You could do no less – a fact of which I will remind you when I see you tomorrow evening.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes shifting away from hers even as he wrapped her in his arms once more. They stood together for a long moment, wound around one another, swaying and fighting against the wetness that welled at the corners of their eyes. She felt as though something was squeezing her from the inside out, hard enough to hurt, and wondered whether or not her ribs could crack from pain that wasn’t physical in nature.

She felt the shift the moment he began to rein himself in, forcing the torrent of feeling back down within him. In the distance, the cathedral bells tolled the hour. “It’s time for me to go,” she murmured.

“I don’t wish it, but yes.”

She nodded, stretching up for one last peck on the lips before pulling away, wiping at her eyes as she made for the door. She paused with her back to him and her hand on the doorknob. “You know I love you,” she whispered.

“And I you, Fiona,” he replied. “May the wind be at your back.”

Not trusting her voice with a response, she slipped from the room and shut the door behind her. As soon as the latch clicked shut she collapsed against it, fighting to control her hitching half-sobs in the dark for some long minutes.

As the last painful shudders subsided she righted herself, striding through Malcolm’s office and into the hallway without looking back.

She wasn’t sure what time it was or how long she had spent in Malcolm’s quarters, but was glad to see it had been long enough that the watch had changed. She nodded at the new complement of guards as she passed, a silent greeting that they returned with a smart salute. She wondered whether or not she was imagining the speculative look in their eyes.

“May Illen keep you all safe tomorrow,” she murmured, deterring any queries. She had already turned along the corridor to the square by the time they voiced their thanks.

Her mouth felt dry and her head was aching as she continued on towards the palace. The thought of making for her rooms was distinctly unpalatable, but she was unsure where else to go, and didn’t want to be in the way of those who were involved with last minute preparations for the morrow. The guards at the palace entrance were having a quiet – if disjointed – conversation as she approached, and she nearly responded to one of their queries before realizing that their lips weren’t moving. A chill ran down her spine; though this was no more than Gabriel had predicted, it was strange to experience these moments of great power, fleeting though they often were.

As she put distance between the guards and herself, their thoughts dwindled to a muted buzz, joining the reverberating hum of fear that had gripped the city for so long. With most of the palace’s occupants asleep, she didn’t have to worry about picking up the stray thoughts of passerby.

Her feet took her towards her rooms of their own volition, thoughts of Malcolm still filling her mind. She ran a hand along a low retaining wall as she drew nearer to her wing, walking in the hall’s shadows and absently tracing her fingers along the textured stonework. Lost in thought, she was nearly upon the little moonlit courtyard between the Regent’s rooms and her own when she stopped, feeling for a queer moment as though someone had called her name yet having heard nothing spoken aloud.

Motionless in the shadows of the hallway, Fiona waited for more to be said, but heard nothing but silence and the low call of nightbirds in the courtyard trees. She was about to start walking again when, with sudden clarity, she saw Valory in her mind’s eye, seated at his desk with his head bent low over a sheaf of papers. Startled, she took another step towards the courtyard and saw two figures standing beneath an ancient fruit tree, half-obscured by its boughs. For a moment she couldn’t make out their features, but another few steps into the courtyard revealed the huddled figures to be Sybina and Lord Samir.

Sybina was speaking, though Fiona couldn’t hear what she said. Samir, who was angled towards her, had his words carried towards the shadows at the edge of the corridor when he replied.

“I only wished to offer my services one last time, cousin. I know this is a decision you have long since made.”

A series of images bloomed in Fiona’s mind’s eye, though she couldn’t say whether they came from Sybina or Samir. The image of Valory reappeared, though this one was different; with a hot blush she saw that he was bare chested, hair hanging past his shoulders and vambraces wrapped around his forearms. She saw her uncle’s sigil stamped into leather and felt a molten flush of anger – not hers – course through her.

The images spun quickly afterwards – a middle-aged man that Fiona knew must be Sybina’s father, two burning crowns of flowers, an empty shipboard bunk. She ached as she saw Valory’s head bent low with her uncle’s, smiles spreading across both of their faces. She heard echoes of a voice, its timbre deep and seductive, making promises that sent shivers skittering through her frame.

“Is it prepared?” Sybina asked, though Fiona wasn’t sure whether or not the words had been said aloud.

Fiona knew with absolute certainty that whatever preparations she referred to had been made for Valory, and that Sybina’s intentions towards her husband were anything but virtuous. Moreover, despite the scattered nature of thought and word, Fiona knew why this was. The anger and hurt was so strong Fiona felt it almost as keenly as she would her own, but this was more than a petty act of revenge. Sybina and Samir were not acting alone; they served another, greater master. His voice still reverberated in their thoughts, speaking of power that was grander than Edmund’s, the Regent’s, or even the King’s.

“It is the same,” Samir said, hand outstretched. “It will work quickly, as it did the last time.”

Fiona was struck by an image of her father in the shade of the courtyard, lying beneath a tree with a book open across his midsection. As he slept a shadow fell across his form and a potion, cloudy in its unmarked glass vial, was poured into his upturned ear. Fiona clenched her fists in her robes, rage consuming her so wholly it made her tremble.

Here was the man who had killed her father, and he was plotting the same end for the Regent.

She backpedalled into the corridor, turning back in the direction from which she had come with silent, hurried footsteps. As Valory’s doorway came into view she encountered the lanky form of Lieutenant Imran, leaning up against the opposite wall of the corridor. He greeted her with a laconic nod, one sharp brow raised in inquiry.

When Fiona spoke, she was nearly breathless with agitation. “The Regent is in danger,” she whispered, “you must let me in.”

To Imran’s credit, he was alert on his feet and wasted not a moment in questioning her on the finer details. “I will wake him,” he said, springing through the door to the sitting room. Fiona realized why he pushed ahead of her the moment he opened the door to the Regent’s room; crowding Imran from behind, she saw Valory launch halfway to his feet at the intrusion, a dagger clutched in one hand.

Valory was instantly alert, eyes discerning even in the dark. “What are you doing here?” he asked, an unsettling echo of the question Malcolm had asked her earlier in the night.

“It’s your wife. She—” Fiona wrung her hands, taking a breath and fighting to regain her composure. “I was walking past the courtyard at the end of the corridor and saw her with Lord Samir. Something about them seemed off to me – I suppose my talent is waxing again – and I came to learn of a plot against you.”

“A plot?” Valory echoed, throwing off the last of the bedcovers and coming to stand before her, clad only in his nightshirt.

“She knows about you and Uncle Arden. I think she turned to Samir for guidance, and he—” she broke off, swallowing hard. “He’s the one who killed my father. I saw how he did it. He prepared a draught of poison. He means to see you go the same way.”

Valory’s eyes narrowed. Even in a state of partial undress, he still appeared nothing less than deadly. “He’s a loyalist.”

“I think so. They’re in contact with someone outside the city.”

“Who?” Valory demanded.

“I don’t know; I saw no face, I only heard his voice. The voice, though . . .” she trailed off, a shiver wracking her shoulders as Sybina’s memory returned to her.

Valory exchanged a look with Imran before spinning and grabbing his sword off of his nightstand, not bothering with proper clothing, footwear, or even his belt or scabbard. He stalked out of the room with Imran on his heels and Fiona a half-step behind.

They turned into the corridor just as Sybina and Samir appeared at the other end. Sybina froze, hands clutched over her breast. Samir, however, must have known that his time was up; without any hesitation he turned to make his escape. He made it a scant step before Valory sprang into action, whirling and letting his dagger fly from his fingertips in a precision strike. It happened so quickly that Fiona realized what Valory had done only when Samir stumbled and fell, the handle of the dagger protruding from his back.

Sybina made a wounded noise, one hand over her mouth and the other cradling a long glass vial against her chest. She fell to her knees beside her cousin, pleading with him in a language Fiona didn’t understand. Samir heaved himself forward, lifting his head only with great effort, a wet cough wracking his frame. Whatever he managed to say in response made Imran stiffen; having imparted that final message to her his frame went limp. Sybina let out a quiet sob. Fiona turned away; she had never liked Samir, but she had no desire to witness his death.

 “Sybina.” Valory’s voice was low, dangerous. “What have you done?”

Sybina looked up from Samir’s still form, shock written across her features. “You killed him,” she whispered, a tremor in her frame. “He’s—” she broke off, switching back into the foreign tongue. _Dramorian_.

Whatever words she spoke, Valory must have understood them, for his whole body tensed. “Is that where his loyalties lay, then? And yours? Has he made a fool of you as well?”

She shut her eyes, lips moving as though she were mouthing the words to a prayer, or speaking to someone who wasn’t present. Fiona tried to reach out with her enchantment but encountered nothing but a solid wall, cold and impenetrable, where Sybina’s mind had been.

“Answer me, Sybina,” Valory said, taking another step forward.

In a blink Sybina had sprung from her crouch, smashing the end of the vial against the wall and lunging at Valory, brandishing a deadly dagger of poison-coated glass. Valory twisted to the side, but evasive maneuvers proved unnecessary; Imran caught her wrist before she reached her target and slammed it into the wall, forcing her to release her grip on the vial.

Chest heaving she twisted in Imran’s grasp, wild eyes coming up to rest on Valory’s face. “This doesn’t end with his death,” she said, voice breaking on the words. “Anaphe will fall. We’ve seen to it.”

“That’s it, then? Mere months in Anaphe, and you’ve turned traitor?” Valory demanded. “Or have you been one all along?”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, chest heaving. “Samir,” she said, “he showed me the way, and—”

“And your father?”

She shook her head. “He wouldn’t understand. He was so devoted to Illen, and I never—” she fell silent once more, eyes losing their focus.

“Fiona?” Valory turned to face her.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t get anything – it’s like she has a wall of cold steel up around her thoughts, it’s—” A terrible realization struck her, and she realized what she had been prodding at with her enchantment. “Oh Gods, it’s _him_ , isn’t it?”

Sybina fixed her eyes upon Valory once more. “The Lord of the desert spoke to me. He told me he would bring peace to Anaphe.”

“Zathár is the master of falsehood—”

“You don’t understand,” she whispered, tears shining in her eyes. “He promised that there would be no bloodshed if we offered no resistance. He said I could remain here, just as I am. He said—” a tear rolled down her cheek. “He said that he would find me another husband, one who would return my regard.”

Valory’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Zathár is a manipulator, Sybina. When we grant him access to our minds he can see our heart’s desire, and promise it to us to tempt us from our path. He has no intention of giving you such prizes. You _know_ this. How could you turn from your Gods and your country to serve such a vile creature?”

Sybina took a hiccoughing breath, a tremor running through her frame. “My father told me that you were an ideal match for me. The High Priest told us that Illen would bless our union. Why would I stay true to them, when they told me such lies?”

Fiona could hear Valory’s mind working furiously, trying to reconcile all he thought he knew with the scene before him. The press of thought and feeling coming off of Valory and Imran in turn was so intense it nearly overwhelmed her other senses. She reached out to steady herself against the wall of the corridor, worried that her knees would buckle under the onslaught.

“Sybina.” He reached a hand out towards her as one would to gentle a spooked animal. “You know I hold you in high regard. We are only just wed—”

“No,” she choked out, turning away from him. “You’re lying even now. Don’t think I don’t know. Don’t think I don’t _see_. How can you persist in making me feel such baseless hope? I know what you are.”

Fiona heard Valory’s breath catch in his throat. “Is that what this is all about?” he asked, rooted to where he stood. With broken glass all around them and his feet bare, he couldn’t take a step in any direction.

Sybina’s features twisted. “Did you think me so foolish and naïve that I would never learn the truth? That I would never know you to be of such a vile persuasion?” She turned to Fiona. “Imagine what your people will think when they hear that Oceana’s Regent consorts with his Steward.”

“Does it matter?” Fiona asked, pushing herself upright. “You’ll be lucky enough to stand trial, but if it comes to that, who would believe the word of a demon-worshipping traitor over the word of the Regent?”

Sybina’s shoulder’s sagged. “You knew,” she said, anger draining from her features as quickly as it had come, leaving only grief in its wake.

“I did.”

Imran had to fight to keep Sybina from sliding down to her knees, cradling her weight against his chest. “I don’t regret it,” she said. “I know you want me to turn back to your side, but I won’t do it. I don’t regret it.” She fell silent again, mouthing words that Fiona couldn’t parse.

The tread of booted feet could be heard in the corridor beyond, and soon the hall was filled with a complement of Malcolm’s guardsmen.

“My Lord, my Lady,” a guardsman said, taken aback. “We heard a commotion from our post.” He looked down at Samir’s body, stretched lengthwise across the corridor. “Is that—”

“Lord Samir,” Valory confirmed voice grave. “He was a traitor to the crown, as is my wife.”

“My Lord?” the guardsman hesitated.

“Samir was responsible for pouring the draught that took Lord Conrad’s life and, with my wife’s aid, made an attempt on mine,” he replied. “Clap Lady Sybina in irons and see her secured in the hold of the next vessel bound for Armathia. She will stand trial for treason before the King.”

“Yes my Lord,” the guardsman hastened to obey the command, taking Sybina from Imran’s control.

“Guardsman,” Imran added, “have care with this glass you see on the ground. It was the vial that carried the poison.”

With a grave nod, the guardsman slapped a set of cuffs around Sybina’s wrists. The thick iron appeared ungainly atop her finely tailored sleeves. He hesitated before taking her away, pausing before Valory with a deferent nod.

“Whatever you say now, I’m afraid you will come to regret this in time,” Valory murmured, meeting his wife’s eyes. “When we reach Armathia, I will not be the one to judge what will happen to you. You will not receive mercy, not in wartime.”

Sybina returned his stare, impassive. “It is all in the Lord’s hands, now.”

“Gods,” Valory whispered, turning away.

“You see, gentlemen? This is where the Princess’ loyalties lie,” Fiona said. “Carry out the Regent’s command. Be wary of anything she has to say, for the Damned One is in her thoughts, but be sure to report anything you learn from her post haste.”

“Yes, my Lady,” the guardsman replied.  His men fell into step behind him, and soon Sybina and the guards were out of sight around the bend in the hall.

The silence that followed was deep, stunned. Fiona turned to Valory, whose eyes were trained on the far end of the hall around which Sybina had disappeared. His thoughts were all awhirl – he made no attempt at straightening them for her benefit – but still she could feel the shock and fear and self-directed anger flowing from him.

“Dramorian,” she murmured. Valory’s eyes flicked towards her. “Why would she speak such a tongue?”

“She’s the daughter of a diplomat. Edmund had her learn it as a child, when we came to learn that she would rule at my side in Anaphe.” He shook his head. “I had thought it a good idea at the time. Her father considered it one of her strong suits. He will be grieved to learn how she has used it.”

“Perhaps knowing it made her susceptible.”

“Perhaps,” Valory allowed.

“If she speaks of you and Uncle Arden—”

“One would hope that she wouldn’t be so spiteful.”

“She has made an attempt at your life,” Imran said. “We will explain any words as an attempt on your reputation.”

“Yes,” Valory said, “good.”

“I think if she speaks, her words will be of another sort entirely.” She met Valory’s steady gaze. “She worships Zathár.”

“She said as much,” Valory replied, a wooden quality to his tone. “This is on my shoulders. Had I not left her bereft of company so often, perhaps Samir wouldn’t have gotten to her so quickly.”

“Gods. Samir was a difficult man, but demon worship?”

“Madness,” Imran muttered.

Valory turned to her. “I was blind to it. I owe my life to your observations.”

Fiona shook her head. “My talent continues to grow in strength, as I said. Without it . . .” she trailed off. “Sybina said that Zathár himself spoke to her. Could such a thing be? Is that . . . whose voice I heard in my thoughts?” The very suggestion that she might have heard the demon’s voice – even secondhand – sent a tremor through her frame.

“He spoke to my brother,” Valory replied. “He is a being with great power.”

“What does that mean for Anaphe, if the demon has spoken to those who live within the city?”

“Anaphe falls,” Imran said, words sharp. “If the Dramor knows how few men stand in defense of this city, they will take advantage of their greater numbers.”

“Is this it, then?” Fiona whispered.

“It will not do to make such speculations in the corridor,” Valory said, voice gruff. Imran held up a hand as he turned back towards his rooms.

“You wear no shoes,” he said, casting a glance first at Valory’s bare legs, then at Fiona’s dainty sandals. “The glass surrounds us.” Heaving a sigh, he stalked towards Fiona, picking her up with whipcord strength and throwing her over a shoulder. At her undignified squeak of surprise, he said, “There are no other options, my Lady.”

He set her down inside Valory’s sitting room, careful to scuff at the soles of his boots for any stray pieces of glass.

“Are you going to carry the Regent as well?” she asked, attempting to inject some humor into her voice. The look on Imran’s face made it clear that he didn’t find her amusing. He prowled a circuit around the room before sticking his head back out the doorway.

“Where are your boots?” he called.

“Under the desk,” came Valory’s reply.

“He kicks them off while he works sometimes,” Fiona offered as Imran squatted down to retrieve them, muttering under his breath.

He left to fetch Valory without comment. The Regent returned in short order, Imran electing to remain outside. As he scraped the soles of his boots free of glass at the threshold, Fiona heard Imran turn his attention to the direction of others who had arrived to clean the dangerous mess scattered throughout the hall.

“Well,” Valory began, inspecting his soles before entering the sitting room and shutting the door behind him, “this has been a night of surprises.”

He had locked his thoughts up tight, but not well enough that her talent couldn’t pry out the underlying worry and discontent that ate at him. Fiona rubbed her jaw; his signature made the ache in her teeth fierce enough that she found it difficult to concentrate.

Valory toed off his boots. He kicked them beneath his desk once more, then tossed his sword haphazardly atop a pile of papers. Fiona’s gaze dropped to his bare legs before she could stop herself, and with some measure of embarrassment she realized that it was only the second time she had seen a man in such a scandalous state of undress. _How odd_ , she mused, _that both should occur within the space of an evening_.

She hadn’t expected modesty from a soldier, per se, though Valory’s nonchalance was uncommon for his station. He dropped into his chair, stretching his legs out before him and crossing them at the ankles. Though not as sun-touched as his face and arms they were still Midlander-dark, peppered with the same thick, black hair that crowned his head. With a start she realized she was staring. Snapping her eyes back to his face she was confronted by his amused grin and felt a hot flush run down her face and neck.

“Sorry, my Lord.”

“I forget how young you are, at times,” he replied, and she knew that he had called her _young_ when he meant _innocent_.

Knowing the intention behind his words only served to further intensify her blush. Attuned as she was to his thoughts, she almost heard the click when he made the connection and realized why she had been out and about so late at night.

“Making comparisons, Fiona?” he asked, arching a brow.

“I—” she stammered, “my Lord—”

“Stop,” he sighed. “I see now is not the time to be making light of our predicament – you must forgive my humor, as it can be off color at times.”

“I know you don’t approve,” she murmured, dropping her eyes and turning her attention to the pattern woven into the carpet beneath her feet.

“Even with such an enchantment as yours?”

She risked a glance back at his face. “I made a choice tonight that I thought you would deem unwise.”

Valory snorted, shaking his head. “That it was unwise is beyond question, but I find I’m in no place to pass judgment. Look at the mess I’ve made of my own choices.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Whatever difficulty this will bring, you must realize that I cannot begrudge your actions. If you had not been at the fort tonight . . .”

“You’re not upset, given what I’ve done to my prospects?” she asked.

“Right now I can’t spare concern for matters of relative triviality. Let’s not find ourselves unable to see the forest for the trees: I owe you my life. If Sybina had shammed at wanting company tonight, I doubt I would have denied her. As soon as I shut my eyes in her presence—”

“Please.” She shook her head. The thought of waking the morning of battle to find the Regent poisoned in bed was too much for her, just as it would have been too much for Anaphe. Yet at the same time, she wondered whether or not Anaphe could surmount all that Sybina and Samir had already done.

“Very well.” He looked up as Imran entered the sitting room.

“Samir is dead,” Imran said, shutting the door behind him. “The physician’s assistant has sent him to be cremated.”

“And Sybina?” Valory asked.

“She is in the hold of the _Desert Wind_.”

“The Admiral’s vessel,” Fiona clarified.

“She refuses to answer any more questions.”

Valory frowned. “I’m quickly losing patience for the stubborn silence of my captives.”

“She is praying in Dramorian,” Imran replied.

“Same difference.”

“Malcolm’s men asked me to translate, but . . .” Imran hesitated.

“I assume you told them that she was reciting from the Book of Zathár,” Valory said.

“I did. A handful of passages. She was a quick study.”

Valory sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “I know you want no part in that. You don’t have to comply with his request unless you think we might gain some sort of an advantage by hearing what she’s saying.”

Imran shook his head. “I told them to keep her awake.”

“Wise,” Valory said, “though I’m not sure how much good it will do.”

“What’s wise?” Fiona asked.

“Some of Zathár’s abilities are similar to yours in nature,” he replied. “Those with a talent for mindspeak can best enter the minds of the willing in their sleep.”

Fiona had no experience with such an extreme manifestation of talent, but she could understand why that would be the case. “Sleeping thoughts are less intense. They would be easier to infiltrate.” She frowned. “But I suspect that sleep will make no difference in this case. I told you, I felt him in her thoughts when we were in the hall.”

“You did,” Valory said, expression turning grim. “That gives you an idea of the kind of enemy we face.”

“What you said before, about the army at his command . . .” Fiona trailed off, unable to give voice to her fears.

“It was I who spoke,” Imran said. “If our enemy knows how few men defend Anaphe, they will adjust their strategy to match their advantage. They will be aggressive in their attack. We will not have to worry about withstanding a siege, for they will storm our walls and we will not be able to repel them.”

Fiona swallowed. “How long can we hold them off? There is still no sign of reinforcements—”

Valory stood, pacing a circle around his sitting room. “I don’t know.”

“It still depends on the creatures, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“With any luck we will repel the first wave soundly enough that they will reconsider the information they gleaned from Samir. Any hesitation on their part will work to our advantage, and perhaps allow us to hold the city.” He paused halfway through his second circuit of the room. “The longer Zathár’s eye remains upon us, the longer my brother has to organize the defense of Armathia.”

“Do you think we can manage it?”

“I won’t lie to you: I don’t have much hope.” His hand strayed to rub at his forearm. As his fingertips traced the spot where vambraces should have been, Fiona realized that he was speaking about more than Anaphe alone.

“We could lose the city tomorrow,” Imran said.

Fiona felt something cold sink in her breast as she realized that they, like Malcolm, believed that Anaphe would fall. “Then there’s nothing we can do but wait and pray.”

“And fight hard,” Valory said. “If our pessimism proves prophetic, then we must at the very least hold out long enough to get the _Desert Wind_ and her escort out of harbor.”

“The Admiral said they could sail on the afternoon tide.”

“Dramor will attack with the rising of the sun,” Imran warned.

“Then you two ought to get some rest,” Fiona said, voice sounding shaky to her own ears. She couldn’t endure any more speculation about the morrow. “After all,” she continued, “it’ll be you at the frontlines repelling those same Dramorian fighters.”

“And whatever devilry they bring,” Imran muttered.

A knock sounded upon the door; Imran opened it a hair’s breadth before slipping out into the hallway where some of Malcolm’s men waited. Fiona and Valory remained silent for a few moments in his absence before she overcame her hesitance.

“Will you tell my uncles?” she asked.

“About where you’ve been tonight? No.” He regarded her over steepled fingers. “That surprises you.”

“I had thought . . .” she trailed off. She wasn’t sure what she had thought. She had known the Regent for a reasonable man for some weeks, yet still found it difficult to believe that he wouldn’t share her indiscretion – one that could discredit her and the prospects of her House – with another.

“You’re a grown woman. You can tell them yourself.”

“They’ll be upset with me.”

“Not Arden. Verne, however . . .” Valory shrugged. “I told you once before that you and I were in similar situations, and I wasn’t being glib. We are valuable political tools, and you may have prevented your family from using you as such. I suspect, however, that the matter will be smoothed by your sisters, so long as word of scandal doesn’t leak.”

“Alicia is of marriageable age,” she murmured.

“Just so.”

“Is it selfish to be relieved by that?” she asked. She felt a pang of sympathy lance through him.

“Yes,” Valory shrugged. “You’re hoping to shirk duty and place it upon your sister’s shoulders. Yet I know it is a burden to be in your place, to be expected to bear full responsibility for the purity of one’s heirs, and to have one’s motives so mistrusted in the process.”

His words rang true, yet she thought it unfair to consider herself burdened, fortunate as she was to be born to the House of Stewards. “I am lucky. I have been permitted to do something of importance these past few months,” she murmured. “Yet the burden of purity you speak of does prevent my peers from doing what I have done. Any association with politicians, soldiers, or scholars necessitates unchaperoned contact with men.”

“Men of rank fear nothing so much as being made a cuckold.”

Fiona studied his features. “Did you fear that?”

He let out a huff of breath, face unreadable. “I never gave much thought to marriage or children – even after getting married myself.” His eyes slid from hers at that, discomfort creeping into his features as he cleared his throat. “You, however, might want to be more mindful.”

“Oh?” For a moment she didn’t understand what he was getting at. His meaning became clear as he gestured towards her stomach, an apologetic shrug and rueful half-smile softening the sting of embarrassment – though not enough to stave off her blush.

“You should see Little in the morning,” he suggested. “He’s least likely to spread gossip. I can call him on your behalf.”

She folded her arms across her chest, nodding and trying to avoid meeting his eyes. “Yes, that – that would be the wisest course.” She felt a pang of envy strike her – this was yet one more complication that the Regent didn’t have to deal with when committing indiscretions, thanks to his inclinations – and a burble of laughter escaped her throat. At his raised brow she elaborated, “I suppose I just realized that there is, in fact, some advantage gained in not being the marrying kind.”

Valory let out a snort of amusement. “Yes, there is that.”

The door opened, Imran entering once again. “The hallway is clean,” he said. “The guardsmen wanted to see Lady Fiona to her rooms. I told them she will stay here tonight.”

“Lieutenant?”

“It is easier for me to look after both of you when you are in one place,” Imran replied, “and it is clear that you both require looking after.”

“Fair enough,” Valory conceded. “We have the room, at least.”

Fiona heard the irony in his tone. As uncomfortable as the thought of staying in Sybina’s bed made her, she had to acknowledge that Imran had good reason for wanting to keep her close. “Alright,” she agreed.

“As impossible as the thought of rest seems, we should make an attempt at it,” Valory said, standing.

She extended her arm, forcing a smile as he clasped it. “Sleep well, my Lord.”

Once Valory bid them goodnight and disappeared back within his bedchamber, Fiona turned to Imran. “I suspect you’ll have to bar his door to keep him from creeping back out here and trying to get work done.”

Imran raised a brow at her. “I had every intention of doing the same to yours, to prevent you from joining him.”

He had a point. “Can you blame my unease at sleeping in the bed of a woman who spoke to . . . _that_ thing?” she asked.

“No.” He opened the door, hand upon the hilt of one of his blades as he assured that the room was free of danger. “But you have little choice.”

“I should have Alicia embroider that on a pillow for me,” she muttered. “Seems it’s my motto these days.”

Imran’s lips twitched. “May your dreams be less disturbed than you anticipate, my Lady.”

As Imran withdrew from the room, shutting the door behind him, Fiona flopped onto the downturned bed. “Gods,” she muttered at the empty room, “he really is awful with words.”

…

Sybina sat in the dank, dark hold of the Admiral’s vessel, murmuring the words of her favorite verses of the Book. She wrapped her arms around her torso and rocked with the rhythm of her words, her mother’s locket clasped in hand. She found the actions comforting. If the guards thought her disturbed as a result, all the better.

The night drew long, and the navy men who had been sent to interrogate her gave up and left her chained below, alone in the hold. She ceased her recitations, throat scratchy and raw from hours of ceaseless speaking. As she relaxed into the most comfortable perch she could find in such an awful place, she felt the cold barriers that had wrapped around her mind soften, becoming pliant and viscous. She shut her eyes, knowing just what this would mean, as she was pulled under.

“ _You have done well_.”

_She was surprised to hear this. She had been terrified that this second failure would convince him that he had chosen poorly when he selected her._

_“Do not imagine I am pleased that the child of Eramen still lives, but you have repaired your error._ ”

“ _I didn’t know the viceroy was an Empath_ ,” she murmured.

“ _You held her outside of your thoughts until I came to aid you. You convinced them that your follower was the architect of your rebellion.”_

_Not even her Lord’s welcome presence could assuage the fresh pain that assailed her as her thoughts turned to Samir. “I will grieve him.”_

_“He is inconsequential.”_

_“He was my cousin.”_

_“You are my chosen general.”_

_She still felt a swell of pride at such words, but it was underscored with hurt. Everything hurt._

_“Human frailty,” he noted._

_“Yes,” she agreed. “But the heart can give much strength too, my Lord. I love you with all of mine. It was all I had, after Samir fell. I don’t know if I would have had the strength to sham so well, otherwise.”_

_“And sham you have. The Regent’s suspicions end with you.”_

_That bolstered her spirits some. Although she knew herself to be a passable actress, she had worried that they would see straight through her words to glean her real motivations. It would prove ruinous if they knew the true worth of the captive they now held. One thing she had long admired about the Regent was that he was a practical man. If he knew her importance to the cause, he wouldn’t hesitate to have her executed – of that she had no doubt. Without her, her Lord would be forced to draw from the strength of the priest alone, else he would be unable to rise once more._

_“You understand your importance. Good.”_

_She was an essential part of her cause, and as such, she had to remember that her cause was greater than all else; greater than her disappointments, greater than the loss of her cousin, greater than any hurt the Regent had caused. Her purpose now was to protect her allies within the city, and to resist all attempts at interrogation. Anaphe was her calling, and she would find herself back within its walls soon._

_“I will show you how.”_

_The images began to swim before her eyes. Her heart rose, bolstered, resolved. All was not lost. Here, before her, lay a path back to the city she had sworn she would hold in her Lord’s name._

_She would see it done_.


	19. Chapter 19

_The Season of Renewal  
Illár the 8; 2422_

The attack had come at dawn, just as Imran had predicted. As early morning sunlight washed over the peninsula, he laid eyes upon the marching army for the first time. It was both organized and not, both Dramorian and not, and the sight of it struck terror into his heart: a terror he would never admit to feeling.

The creatures were numerous and aggressive in their attack, malformed bodies thrust forward through ranks of Dramorian soldiers to clamor at the city’s outer walls. Imran found that he couldn’t look away from their twisted countenances. Zathár’s foot soldiers retained enough of their humanity to fill him with disgust; these men and women had been monstrous during their lifetimes, and now wore that barbarity upon their bodies for all to see. Their empty, locker-marked eyes left no doubt of what they were.

On the horizon lay the blackened ruins of the settlements that had stood between Anaphe and the advancement of Zathár’s armies. Fingers closing around the idol of Arrar that lay upon his breast, Imran took a moment to hope that Anaphe would not reach a similar fate.

As his lips formed the words of a silent prayer, his eye was caught by a standard fluttering in the center of the fray. It was borne by a young Dramorian clad in the burnt orange colors of the house of Garo. Beside him, a tall man sat astride the back of an ancient fanged beast, calling out orders in a voice that Imran recognized even after so many long years.

He had known that his brother would be here, but that hadn’t served to prepare him for the sight.

Imran stilled between two archers on the outer wall of the city, blindsided by all that stirred within him at the sight of his brother’s face. Alvar was a decorated warrior now – a General – with the marks signifying his rank woven into his quilted armor. Imran struggled against the confusing flare of pride that filled him at knowing how far his brother had come since the years they had fought side-by-side together as members of the sultan’s guard.

Arrested by what might-have-been, he remained lost in thought until the sharp slap of wood against stone announced the advancement of more creatures upon the city’s defenses. He backed out of the way as two of Malcolm’s men hurried past, carrying a tub of scalding water between them to ward off any who would dare breach their walls.

“Imran!”

With a start he realized that he had fallen behind Valory and the others. Sparing one last look out towards his brother he turned and ran, light on his feet, to join his commander.

He caught up with them near Malcolm’s position at the center of Anaphe’s defense. Malcolm had assembled a handful of firestarters in an attempt to put out the flame in the bellows-like war machine that battered Anaphe’s gates. Already the gates glowed with heat, and despite Malcolm’s best efforts, the bars were bent inward by the wedge at the front of the machine. Its advance was slow, but if its progress wasn’t halted it would breach the gates before long.

“Aim for the machine drivers,” Malcolm called, stepping aside as his men poured more cold water down the gates. It did little, turning to steam the moment it touched metal.

“They’re fast,” Gabe said, nocking an arrow and letting it fly at one of the men working the bellows. As soon as one was felled, however, another would spring up in his place.

“Keep your speed up, archers,” Valory said through gritted teeth. Imran recognized the telltale balled fists and tight jaw that indicated he was exercising his enchantment.

Waiting behind and around the warmachine and its operators was a seething mass of creatures, many of which were climbing atop one another in an attempt to draw closer to the city walls, maws snapping like wild dogs. If the warmachine’s progress couldn’t be stalled, the creatures would be the first wave to breach the gates. Imran found scene repulsive, a reaction that was amplified as those closest to the gates grew impatient in their frenzy, attempting to wrench apart the molten-hot bars of the gates with their bare hands. His stomach flipped as the smell of burnt flesh reached him, yet still the creatures pressed forward, showing no sign of pain.

Above the fray Imran could still hear the occasional snatch of an order spoken in his brother’s voice: the careful accent of a highborn flatlander. He had heard his mother tongue spoken recently, had even spoken bits of it himself when they were last in the Borderlands with villagers who preferred their hybrid dialect to Oceanic. It had been nearly a decade since he last heard the accent of his childhood, however, and having it reach his ears upon the field of battle after so long proved to be a jarring distraction.

Even as ladder upon ladder was set against the walls, even as another wave of creatures made for the gates, Imran heard nothing but Dramorian voices. He had raised arms against his countrymen before, but this was the first time he had ever felt so caught between worlds: Dramor was not his home and these were no longer his people, but his brother’s voice echoed in his ears.

It was an unsettling feeling.

“Lieutenant,” Malcolm interrupted his reverie, “can you hear what’s being said?”

Imran cocked his head. For all the distraction Alvar had caused, he hadn’t been paying much attention to individual words. As he listened with fresh ears, the shouted strings of orders began to take shape. “They advance hard.” He paused, casting his eyes out to the tight knot of officers clustered around his brother. “They know that our resistance is token.”

“Then no matter how hard we drive them back, they’ll just keep coming?”

Malcolm had expected no less, Imran knew – the edge of finality in his tone was readily apparent.

“They will send the creatures first.” He looked back down the length of the gates where creatures were already attempting to squeeze through the narrow pass, heedless of pain, heat, or any other obstacle.

“Nothing stops them,” Malcolm murmured.

“Devilry.” Imran touched his idol once more.

“Can they even be killed?” Malcolm wondered. “Can you kill what’s already dead?”

“Be at the ready, lads,” Little cautioned them.

Imran drew up to his full height, reaching for the hilts of the blades strapped to his back as the slap of another ladder hailed the advancement of more creatures. They scrambled up one after another, falling only when a well-timed arrow compromised their balance. When the first empty-eyed head appeared over the wall, Imran noted that three arrows were already lodged in its extremities. He dispatched the creature with a grunt as one of Malcolm’s young guards ran up beside him, upending a jug full of kerosene onto the ladder. A moment later Malcolm himself lit the spark, yet even with flame consuming the wood beneath their hands, the creatures did not slow.

“Your enchantment does little,” Imran remarked.

“Gods,” Malcolm panted, reaching for his weapon as yet another creature made for the wall, its hands and forearms a grotesque, blackened mass of charred flesh. Imran’s stomach roiled at the sight and smell.

As the creature reared its head and turned for Imran, an arrow released at close range struck it in the side of the chest. The creature reached for one final handhold at the top of the wall before stilling, empty eyes boring into his as it went limp and fell backwards into the frenzy below.

Malcolm turned to face him, slack-jawed with surprise. “Whatever mechanics animate them, whatever charms keep them from feeling pain, no matter – they _can_ be killed,” he said, voice ringing with renewed vigor. “Go for their throats, men – nothing less.” A third creature summited the wall as he spoke, lunging at them before falling at the point of Malcolm’s sword. “All is not yet lost,” he said, letting the body fall back from where it had come.

Imran wished he could share the Captain’s optimism. “They are many, and we have much ground to defend.”

Malcolm’s chin lifted, eyes roving over the extent of the city walls. “If they seek to stretch us thin and take the gates, then let them have at it.”

“Sir?”

“Anaphe will not fall with its gates, Lieutenant. We can retreat to the second level and guard the fort and the inner city from there.”

Imran could picture the location in his mind’s eye: a narrow pass that culminated in a hairpin turn leading through the arches to the second level. It passed beneath the foundation of the fort. The thoroughfare was narrower than its Armathian equivalent, and though Imran was familiar with the city, he hadn’t considered the tactical advantage until that moment.

“You can block the arch there, yes?” he asked.

“Or slow their advancement to a trickle.”

“You would create the neck of the bottle,” Imran nodded, dispatching another creature.

“A bottleneck, you mean? That’s the idea.”

The ladder nearest to them, which had been smoldering the whole while, finally buckled under the creatures’ weight. Imran winced at their shrill cries as they fell the long way down to the ground. Even as one ladder fell, Imran could see another coming forward on the backs of Dramorian foot soldiers to take its place.

“If we retreat, they will pursue.” He looked back towards the gates where the wedge of the warmachine had advanced nearly to its full width. “We must stop the machine.”

Valory spoke up through gritted teeth. “I’m almost there. Captain, we spoke of this earlier. If you think the second level more defensible, I suggest you organize the regrouping post haste.”

“If you could fell the ladders as well—”

“I’m doing what I can, but there are limits to my ability.”

Imran couldn’t see what work so occupied him, but he knew it had to do with the warmachine. The distance between Valory and the machine was not so great, perhaps, but it was sturdily built and well-manned, and he couldn’t imagine how Valory could destroy it. Imran hesitated, looking back and forth between the wall and the city behind them.

“If we give away he gate, we will not get it back,” he warned.

“If we delay and lose the gate anyway, most of our men will be pinned before the fort when the creatures come.” Malcolm stared out across the expanse of the advancing army, jaw set. “The second level will hold until the _Desert Wind_ is ready to sail.”

“Then let’s begin, before we’re left with no choice,” Valory cut in. As he spoke, the hair-raising noise of metal-on-metal drew Imran’s attention down to the gates where the warmachine collapsed in on itself, landing in a twisted wreck that obstructed the very entrance it had attempted to create. As the machine gave one last, shuddering noise before stilling, Imran could hear the dismayed shouts of his former countrymen, bemoaning the hours of lost work and the fall of their finest machine.

Malcolm froze, wide-eyed at the Regent’s display of skill. Imran stepped forward to steady Valory’s swaying frame until Little reached him, clasping arms and shouldering some of his burden.

Quick on his feet, Malcolm began to issue orders for the retreat to the second level. Imran was impressed by the efficiency of the maneuver that followed; even in the heat of battle with the creatures of Zathár, Malcolm’s men made their careful exit by company, leaving the wall in staggered stages that allowed them to cover one another’s backs.

“Let’s go, my Lord,” Malcolm said, gesturing to the stone staircase that led down into the first level.

“A moment.” Valory pulled away from Little, rolling his shoulders as he strode down the length of the wall, arm extended out towards the battlefield. One by one the ladders he passed snapped in half, sending the creatures that manned them plummeting down to the ground. By the third ladder Valory had weakened considerably, his movements becoming sluggish and strained. After the fourth ladder toppled one of his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees.

“For Fángon’s sake, Val – must you be such a stubborn arse?” Little muttered, grabbing at Valory’s arm to relieve him of the exhaustion and vertigo that accompanied the overuse of a powerful enchantment.

“Call me an arse all you like; our retreat is covered for now,” Valory replied, wheezing as though he had run all the city levels without pause.

Malcolm shook his head. “Damn,” he said, “that’s a talent.”

“Let’s _go_ ,” Imran insisted, turning away from Dramor’s regrouping forces to face the last of Malcolm’s men, hesitating beside the staircase, not wanting to leave the frontline without their leader.

“Follow me,” Malcolm said, making for the staircase. Valory pulled away from Little to take the stairs under his own power. Imran found it difficult to tell whether Little had fixed the problem; it was just as likely that Val was being his usual mule-headed self, and wouldn’t admit it until he hit the ground.

“More frustrating than a sea-witch, and just as predictable,” he grumbled, sprinting down the stairwell and through the streets behind Valory, bringing up the rear with Little and Gabe.

“You’re not still going on about sea-witches, are you?” Little huffed. “Gods’ sake, you’re obsessed with the things.”

Imran flipped him two fingers as they rounded a corner, encountering a handful of creatures who had made it through the gates before the warmachine fell. Despite the wretchedness of their appearance, they didn’t fight as hard as Imran had feared; Imran took care of two of them himself, and they were soon on their way once more.

They followed Valory and Malcolm through a series of shortcuts – empty markets, narrow alleyways – before popping back onto the main thoroughfare once more, fort looming tall above them. They caught the last of Malcolm’s men as the road steepened and turned, passing through the carven stone entryway to the second level. The guardsmen had already taken up their posts, and dropped the thick wooden beams of the barricade as soon as the last of them was through.

Imran looked around to see infantrymen lining the street behind him, and archers and Elementalists in every street-side window. Above and behind him, scores of marksman lay in wait within and atop the fort.

Valory appeared before them, sparing a minute nod of gratitude. He seemed to have recovered some of his strength, but Imran knew he wasn’t liable to show any weakness in the moments before battle, no matter what toll the use of his enchantment had taken on him.

Sidling up next to him, Valory nudged his arm. “Stop staring at me as though I’m going to disappear before your very eyes.”

Imran scowled. “It is in response to your foolish behavior.”

“I will do everything in my power to save this city, no matter how bleak the odds,” Valory replied, lowering his voice so only Imran could hear.

“You have never cared for odds.”

“Duty before self,” Valory reminded him.

“Yes. My duty is to protect Oceana’s Regent, idiot though he may be.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do not get yourself killed on my watch.”

Valory blew out a breath. “Noted.”

Imran had the sneaking suspicion that Valory was stifling a laugh, but chose to ignore it, turning his attention back to their view of outer city walls. Valory’s stunt seemed to have bought them some time; the creatures had quieted.

Little stepped up beside them, leaning on his staff. “What’s the plan of action?” he asked. “I overheard the Captain sending a message down to the docks.”

“We have sent word to the Admiral; he is standing by. I won’t have the vessels stand down until we’re certain that evacuation will be unnecessary.”

“And ‘till then?” Little pressed.

Valory shrugged, turning out towards the gates. “We’ve naught to do but wait and see.”

.

The creatures came bit-by-bit over the wall, but none had managed to pass the archway to the second level. From his position at the top of a retaining wall Malcolm could see down the length of the thoroughfare as it wound from their barricade to the first level and out to the blockaded city gates. The creatures continued to advance into the first level using what few ladders remained, but their progress through the city streets was interrupted by Malcolm’s archers, else they were stopped in their tracks as they attempted to pass into the second level.

The barricade was reinforced at the far end by dozens of bodies of creatures felled by marksmen and infantry alike. It sickened Malcolm to watch them claw over their fallen brethren to reach the archway, empty eyes and mechanical movements an unsettling parody of all they had once been. Yet Malcolm knew that the very absence of mind or soul that so unsettled him was also what gave him cause to hope; the creatures were incapable of tactical thought or organized action, and so their mindless rush of the second level contrived to reinforce Anaphe’s last line of defense by littering the thoroughfare with the fallen.

Before the gates the Dramorian leader was visibly frustrated by this turn of events, a small figure in studded leather armor who remained tantalizingly out of reach of Malcolm's archers. He had allowed Zathar's creatures forward into the city without realizing the true extent of their inability for forethought; although this lack of prescience had so terrified Malcolm's men at the city gates, some were now optimistic that it would be Dramor's downfall.

Malcolm could not allow himself to think in such positive terms, not yet, but he couldn't deny the subtle but powerful shift in attitude of his guardsmen. The attack had slowed to a trickle, and as Malcolm turned to survey his men, he could see the first flare of defiance in their eyes. Though it was a feeling he did not share, nor was it reflected in the Regent’s stern countenance, he knew that it was his duty as a leader of men to nurture such a delicate hope.

“Sir?”

Malcolm turned to see one of his newest recruits, a young man barely at his majority. “Speak.”

“What’s going on, sir?”

Malcolm took in the boy’s thin-pressed lips, the determination lining his brow, the slight waver in his words. “The blocked gate is slowing them.”

“They’ll have to remove the warmachine to open the gates,” another guardsman spoke up. “I saw what the Regent did. It’s a mess.”

“It bought us time,” said Valory’s Lieutenant.

“Then what now?” the boy asked, looking out to the first level where the creatures continued to fall at the hands of Anaphe’s marksmen.

The wait, Malcolm knew, was always the hardest. It was the calm before being blown flat by the southerly half of a hurricane; the void of action in which the mind and imagination were left to run wild, conjuring all of the terrors that could lie before them. When they had gathered upon the parapets in the pre-dawn light, the Regent had filled that void with powerful words about the defense of Anaphe and Oceana against its most ancient nemesis. It had brought all of them some measure of peace, and he if he could provide that now--

"We will fight tooth and nail for our city," he said, and something about his tone must have informed his men that more was forthcoming, for a sudden hush fell over those assembled. "For centuries Dramor has fought us for our homeland, and for centuries our forefathers have put their necks upon the block to keep the city in the name of their children and their children's children." He took a steadying breath. "Good men have fought and won, and good men have fought and fallen. But we would not be who we are -- Anapheans, and men of Oceana -- if we fought only when we were certain of victory."

"Here, here!" called one of his archers.

"I wish I could tell you that I am certain of victory, but we are brothers-in-arms above all, and I cannot lie to you.” He swallowed hard. “I do not know what this day will bring. I do know, however, that Dramor will not find us to be an easy mark. We are men of the City Guard, Anapheans, men whose mettle Dramor has not yet tested.”

The cheers of approval were underscored by the grinding sound of metal against metal as the fallen warmachine finally began to give.

“And if we don’t triumph, Captain?” the boy asked, sounding small even for his young years.

“If we do not, then we will go to meet Illen with open arms, knowing that we have laid our lives down for the highest and noblest of causes.” He raised his sword as the city gates gave another ominous screech. “If I die today, I know it will not be in vain. It will be a sacrifice I gladly make so that those I love can live. This is for them: for our wives, our children, our sisters and our lovers. This is for the people of Anaphe.”

His men erupted into cheers. For all his words lacked in optimism they were tempered with honesty, with the knowledge that, no matter the day’s outcome, they will have won a victory for their people. If this was to be their last stand, it would damn well mean something.

As the noise at the gates grew louder, Malcolm found himself standing beside the Regent.

“Fine words, Captain,” Valory said, pitching his voice low enough that Malcolm had to lean in to hear him.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“We’ve received word from the Admiral. The winds are picking up. They will be able to depart in a little over an hour’s time.”

“Welcome news,” Malcolm said.

Valory met his eyes unblinking, and something about the intensity of his stare gave rise to a churning unease in Malcolm’s gut. “If you have any guardsmen or aides who have not yet reached their majority, send them to the docks.”

“Will you not join them, my Lord?”

“When it comes to it.” Valory’s brow drew down. “I may be Regent, but I am a soldier as well. I’d not ask another to fight on my behalf.”

“And that is why my men would follow you to the locker, my Lord. I am grateful for it. But when the time comes—”

“Yes,” Valory agreed, looking back out towards the gates, which shuddered beneath the strain. “I know as well as you do that these measures were temporary. The gates cannot hold under such a force, nor can this barricade. If duty bids me leave you to fight this battle in my stead, then it also bids me see the last of your people safely to Armathia. I will see it done.”

Malcolm flexed his fingers around the hilt of his sword. “My Lord, I know this isn’t my place, but I have another request to make.”

Valory’s sharp stare turned his way once more. “Go on.”

“Take care of her for me,” he said, hoping that the Regent, for all of his lack of convention, would look past class to grant him a boon. When the Regent took his words without a blink, he realized that the man was far more perceptive than he had thought.

“I’ll do my best, Captain.”

Malcolm nodded. The gates gave another ominous groan. “My Lord, if we lose this level, we lose the city as well.”

“Then we must hold it until our ships are ready to sail.”

The gates broke open with a reverberating clang, a wave of creatures rushing through as the last of the warmachine was dismantled and the gates toppled to the ground. Malcolm swallowed hard. “Tell her—” he broke off, unable to believe that he had the cheek to make such a request of the brother of the King. “Tell her that she was in my thoughts, in the end.”

Valory nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. “It was an honor to serve beside you, Captain.”

“Likewise, my Lord,” he choked out, clasping the Regent’s extended arm.

“Let’s get ready, lads,” Little called, “here they come!”

The press of creatures was slow at first, held as they were behind the barricade and targeted by archers and Elementalists alike. Yet there were so many, and the guardsmen were so few, that the trickle of creatures through the first level soon grew to a torrent, which in turn grew to a flood. Still the archway held. Though by sheer number the creatures made it over the barricade, the men at the front lines stopped them there without faltering.

Beside him, the Regent and his men fought on with wild abandon. Valory, showing no sign of the toll that the use of his enchantment had taken, felled creature after creature with brutal strokes of his broadsword. As the sun climbed higher in the sky and the creatures continued to come, Malcolm felt his battle focus give way to desperation – at the loss of his city, at the fate that awaited him – and saw the wild, bestial rage that consumed him mirrored in all of those who fought at his side.

For a time it was enough. They matched the creatures in intensity and strength, and paid no heed to how many more lay in wait beyond Anaphe’s walls. Yet no matter how hard they fought the creatures still came, inexorable as the rise of the tide. Just as incoming water pushed stones away from the shoreline, so did the advance of the creatures force Malcolm and his men up the causeway, inch by hard-fought inch. The morning passed this way, in a manner that made it feel as though each minute spanned days.

Soon even the advantage of higher ground wasn’t enough. Malcolm watched as he men began to fall around him, creatures swarming those who stumbled. He flinched at the cries of agony that reached his ears, willing his mind away from thoughts of how they had met their ends. He began to shout over the din, encouraging his men, pushing through his weariness to rally them to him and continue the fight. As he looked around, however, he saw that the fragile hope that had buoyed their spirits was gone, replaced by wide-eyed terror at the sight of their comrades meeting such a terrible fate.

Craning his neck, he realized that they had been pushed back several hundred feet since the gates fell. A mere stone’s throw behind him, the causeway opened up to a wide square and marketplace – terrain that would be indefensible against the odds that they faced. A tremor ran through his frame. This was it.

A creature jumped out at him, reaching for him with gnarled hands and empty eyes. He ran it through without hesitation, reclaiming his blade with a grunt and craning his neck in search of the Regent. Valory was several paces behind him, still felling creature after creature with single-minded focus. His movements had grown slower, features drawn, feet sluggish. Beside him Imran was a blur of steel, mastering the Dramorian twin blades with deadly precision. In between each of his opponents he turned back to the Regent, shouting sharply-accented entreaties that Valory remove himself from the frontlines.

“My Lord,” Malcolm shouted, pushing past another creature to come within earshot, “you must go.”

Valory brought a creature down to its knees with a vicious hack. “The Admiral has not sent word—”

“My Lord,” Malcolm repeated, voice cracking. Valory turned, meeting his eyes. “It’s over, my Lord.”

“C’mon Val,” Little said, clapping a hand around Valory’s bicep. Beside them, Gabriel deflected the attack of another creature.

“Captain.” Valory’s voice was hoarse.

“ _Go_ , my Lord.”

The Regent gave a jerky nod, holding his stare for a long moment before turning, men at his flank, and making for the entrance to the fort at the far end of the second level. Malcolm watched them disappear past the widening of the causeway before turning his attention back to the battle raging before him. In the street where he and his men had once stood, he could see the barricade trembling beneath the blows of a battering ram.

“This is it, men,” he shouted. “Form ranks. Stand beside your brothers in arms. If this be the end, we will go with blades in hand.”

“Captain, the barricade—”

With a great splintering snap, the beams defending the arch gave. Creatures came pouring through the archway, sweeping around the hairpin turn and up the causeway.

“For Anaphe!” he cried, raising his blade. Bracing himself as his men closed ranks around him, he reached up with his free hand to touch two fingers to his brow. “For you, Fi,” he whispered.

Then the creatures came.

.

“ _The brother of the King is making his escape_.”

Alvar pressed his lips together, urging his mount forward with a nudge to its ribs. He had been surprised and dismayed to see the man still alive when the day dawned; it could only mean that their allies within the city had failed or turned traitor. For all of the uncertainty the Prince’s appearance had caused, however, Anaphe’s defenses were as weak as anticipated.

“ _If he attempts to leave the city by sea, our Lord will send the creatures. They will not make it past the reef_ ,” he said.

“ _Good, sir_ ,” his underling replied.

The words hardly registered. Alvar watched his men burst through the barricade that had pinched them below the city’s second level. The creatures, whipped up into a frenzy of bloodlust, tore into the ranks that had formed to meet them.

“ _Send word forward_ ,” he said, eyes falling upon the Anaphean guardsman who led the last charge, a Captain’s star glinting upon his collar. “ _The officers are ours, to be made an example of_.”

“ _Yes, sir_.” The soldier hesitated. “ _General, did you see the one who fought beside the Oceanic Prince?”_

“ _I did_.” There had been a Dramorian among them, meeting the description he had been given after the Januzians had lost Ithaka. The man wore Oceanic colors in an old Indarian cut, and fought with the traditional twin blades. He was too far – and too many stood between them – for Alvar to see his face, but he knew him regardless.

“ _Was it—_ ”

“ _That is unimportant_.” Whatever his thoughts upon seeing his brother again, they had no place in his mind this day, when he would retake Dramor’s ancestral lands once and for all.

His subordinate hesitated. “ _If he falls into our hands_ —”

“ _He is an Oceanic officer. He will be treated as such._ ”

“ _Yes sir. Any further orders_?”

“ _Once the way is cleared, send your men to the docks._ ” He raised his eyes to the fort, which was rapidly being overwhelmed by creatures. “ _Let none escape_.”

.

When the order came to await the tide on the vessels docked next to the fort, Fiona sent Jarmon and the last remaining councilors from the second level, electing to remain behind alone. They had protested her decision as they were so wont to do, but she held firm, using the fear she sensed within them to persuade them to take shelter shipboard. Though many still argued that she had no business holding the scepter and wearing the colors of her House, she had taken the Regent’s words to heart, and was determined to prove her detractors wrong.

Until the King relieved her, she was Anaphe’s acting viceroy. She would not leave its walls unless there was no other recourse.

With no martial skills to speak of, Fiona elected to wait at the far side of the fort in an open hallway that faced the water. She was too far from battle to know for certain what was happening, but sounds and impressions still reached her: the rhythmic noises of warmachines, the foreign chants of approaching foes, the bone-chilling cries of men drawing their last breaths. As the sun rose overhead the din grew louder. Fiona found herself twisting her sash into knots, threads fraying along with her nerves. She didn’t envy the men sent to the frontlines that morning, yet knowing that she could do nothing to aid them was no easy burden to bear, either.

Twice the Admiral sent men to retrieve her, bearing news about the progress of the wind and tide. Each time she refused to be brought to the docks. She couldn’t go until she was assured of Malcolm and Valory’s safety, and so she sent the messengers away, lead in her stomach and the echoes of fear and desolation in her chest.

She felt it when the defenses fell. A sick, terrible feeling consumed her, overwhelming her senses. She reached out blindly, steadying herself against the balustrade as a wave of nausea overcame her, nearly sending her to her knees. It was unlike anything she had ever experienced before, yet she knew it for what it was, both instinctively and by Gabriel’s few words on the subject. She was experiencing the black, empty horror of untimely death as the lives of her countrymen were snuffed out one by one.

Fiona began to tremble, remaining upright by sheer force of will alone. She forced herself not to think about the names and faces of the men of the City Guard. Taking deep breaths through her nose as Gabriel had shown her, she reached up with one hand to massage the sudden ache in her jaw.

It didn’t occur to her what this ache might herald until the sound of approaching footsteps began to echo through the open air corridor before her. Imran was the first figure around the corner, a bloodstained blade in each hand. He was followed by Valory, Gabriel, and Little.

“Fiona,” Valory panted, exhaustion rolling off of him in waves, “why haven’t you left?”

“The others are shipboard, but I—”

“No time for chatter,” Imran snapped, prodding Valory towards the stairway leading to the docks.

“Come,” Valory said, pausing mid-stride when he realized that she hadn’t moved.

Fiona craned her neck, trying to see around the corner from which they had appeared. “Where is Malcolm?” she asked.

Valory looked away, avoiding her eyes. “We must go, Fiona.”

“No,” she shook her head. He reached out to grasp her forearm. “No,” she repeated, voice trembling. “No, no, no – I won’t leave without him.”

A crash sounded from somewhere within the fort. Valory and Imran exchanged a glance before both began to run for the docks, dragging her along with them.

“Let me go!” she shrieked, pulling against Valory’s near-painful grip on her forearm. It was no use; he was too strong. She twisted, looking back over her shoulder as they ran, willing Malcolm to appear behind them.

She began to struggle once more as they reached the gangway of the _Desert Wind_ ; Imran grabbed her by the collar and hauled her backwards onto the deck. She opened her mouth to shout, to plead, to order the Admiral to wait for Malcolm’s arrival, but even as she looked back at the fort she saw the first of Zathár’s malformed creatures swarm out into the hall where she had only just been standing.

Tears blurred her vision, a choked noise escaping her throat. Valory caught her when she stumbled, preventing her from falling over the side as the gangway was lifted and the lines cast off. She collapsed against him as the Admiral shouted orders around them, the last of her strength stolen from her.

Anaphe had fallen.

Malcolm was gone.

.

Valory caught Fiona with one arm, holding her upright against his chest. He exchanged a glance with his men, lump rising in his throat. Words failed him. Fiona shook with the broken, silent sobs of a love ending, and he couldn’t help the selfish hope harbored deep in his heart that his own love was safe.

He pulled her inboard as they turned off the wind and sped towards the channel, hoping that he was providing her with some measure of comfort. She had buried her face against the crescent moon of his insignia, fingers clenched white-knuckled around his breastplate’s edges, knees weak and shaky. Valory patted awkwardly at her back, struggling to find words, when a jolt sent them stumbling into a fife rail. The ship’s bell began clang in warning, another jolt shaking the ship from the other side.

“Fiona,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulders and holding her at arm’s length, finally meeting her bleak stare.

“My Lord.” The words were breathed through chapped lips, barely audible above the din.

“I have not yet relieved you from service,” he said, casting about for something that would make her snap to. “We are being pursued. Your people are in the hold; you must go to them. Keep them calm and safe below deck. They must not interfere.”

A spark lit in her eyes at his words. She licked her lips. Though tears still ran down her cheeks, something of the fierceness he knew from her returned at the mention of her duty to her people.

“I will see them cared for until Illen takes me East,” she swore, voice cracking on the words.

“And I will hold you to your oath,” he replied, gesturing towards the companionway. “Now go.”

Fiona turned to obey him without question, but paused before beginning her descent down the companionway ladder. “Val,” she whispered, “is this where it ends?”

The ship jostled beneath another impact. He swallowed. “I don’t know.”

She reached up, laying a hand over the sigil stamped into his breastplate. “I’m glad to have served the crown with you,” she said before disappearing below, not waiting for a reply.

Valory spun away from the companionway, making his way to the quarterdeck with a silent Imran at his flank. He surveyed their progress. There were three ships in their convoy, and none had yet rounded the shoals for the safety of open water. He caught Gabe’s eye in silent query; Gabe shook his head, looking away.

“Here they come, lads!” the Admiral shouted from his place beside the helm. The sailors, shaken though they were by the appearance of the creatures, nevertheless began a slow-building battle song.

Valory saw the ripple of water off of the starboard quarter and drew his weapon, standing at the ready. The vessel jerked once more as several pairs of tentacles snaked their way over the side. He tried to count them, dismay overcoming him as he realized that they were again outnumbered. As the mottled mantle of the first squid-like creature appeared over the side he rushed forward to battle once more, driven in spite of his exhaustion by the knowledge that he would be protecting the lives of all of those taking shelter in the _Desert Wind_ ’s hold.

If he found death here, it would be a good one, in the name of Oceana and in the line of duty. He would not regret it.

He only wished he could have seen Arden one last time.


	20. Chapter 20

_The Season of Renewal  
Illár the 18; 2422_

“For Fángon’s sake,” Arden muttered, adjusting the trim on the foresail. Jonah eyed him with a raised brow, but refrained from comment. Above them the shifty wind set the sail luffing once more, stealing their speed. Arden let out another string of curses.

Jonah locked off the working jib sheet before passing Arden on his way to the main companionway. “Coffee?” he offered.

Arden grunted by way of reply. They were almost around the shoals; Anaphe’s lighthouse would soon be in sight. He didn’t have time for rest, and glowered when Jonah rolled his eyes.

“C’mon Jack – you’ve been on deck for three straight watches.”

“I’ve no desire for recreation,” Arden snapped, adjusting the foresail once more before casting a pointed glance at the jib.

“Yeh, yeh – we’re in a hurry to get to Anaphe—”

“The city will be under siege by now,” Arden said through gritted teeth.

“And you’re worried about more than just the city. We _know_. But you’ve been nastier than a Lyrian rattlesnake these past few days, mate. I’m right sick of it.”

Arden felt the anger swell within him, building fire-hot behind his breastbone. Jonah’s words sank in before a spiteful retort left his lips, however.

He frowned. Perhaps he _had_ been irritable since they escaped the Ashaia; despite their consistent speed, it felt as though they were crawling towards Anaphe. He had been unable to sleep more than a snatch of minutes in a row for several days, so anxious was he to make it to the city in time. Thinking back on the past few days, he was forced to admit that Jonah had a point.

“I owe you an apology it seems,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Not just me,” Jonah shrugged. “That’s not to say we don’t understand, but you’ve got to cut us some slack too. It’s been a hell of an assignment.”

Arden blew out a breath. “To put it mildly.”

“We’re almost there though, yeh? Cap said it’d be a pair of hours at the most.”

“Enough time for that coffee you were coveting.”

“To be fair, that was mostly a ploy to get you to pour one for yourself. A cup usually makes you less of an arse,” Jonah grinned.

“I need to be on deck—”

“It’s not even your watch. We’ve got it covered.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Arden asked, the smile feeling unfamiliar on his face after so many days of gnawing worry.

“Until we round the point, at least.”

“Alright,” he conceded. “But if anything happens—”

“I’ll fetch you myself. Now get out of here.” Jonah shooed him towards the main companionway. Arden clapped him on the shoulder in silent gratitude before heading below.

When his eyes adjusted to the dim below-deck light, he found that the galley and salon were empty save for Callum. The Captain was seated upon the salon floor with an old, frayed line at this side, chopping it up into scrap and sail ties. He looked up at Arden’s approach, brows raised.

“Hadn’t thought I’d be seeing you down here anytime soon,” he said, wedging his marlinspike into a length of line to start a new splice.

“I was informed that it was time for me to leave the watch be,” Arden replied with a wry twist of his lips.

“Jonah?”

“Yeh.”

Callum huffed out a laugh. “Figures.” He glanced up from his work, looking Arden over with the same critical eye he usually reserved for his ship. “You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin, lad. Fix yourself a cuppa and come help me with this bit here; I think we have enough for a heaving line.”

Arden nodded, slipping into the galley and pouring himself a mug. They had run out of milk some days earlier, but he knew that Ehrin always stocked the larder with cane. He broke off a piece, grinding it with the Kilcoranian greystone mortar and pestle that had been the crew’s gift to her on the anniversary of her birth some years past. With a smile he mixed the sugar in his mug, returning to the salon to sit beside Callum.

“What’s got you in such good spirits?” Callum asked, handing him the bitter end of a coil.

“Just remembering how hard it was to hide that mortar and pestle from Ehrin those years back.”

Callum let out a bark of laughter. “Should have realized that she would look through our bags of shopping – Ranael knows she always does.”

“If she ever finds out that Jonah shoved it down his trousers—”

“We cleaned it up after, didn’t we?”

“She’d have our heads. Jonah’s specifically, as it’s his ‘head’ in question.”

Callum socked him in the shoulder. “I heard that pun, you dirty bugger. That’s my girl you’re talking about.”

Arden grinned, beginning the first stitches that would become the ball at the end of the heaving line. Above them, the bell tolled out the hour. Callum set his work down, standing and stretching. “Best plot our course, unless you’ve got a mind to do some chartwork.”

“I’ll pass.”

“I miss the days when you lads were eager,” Callum muttered, making for the companionway. Arden offered up a cheeky salute as the Captain turned for the ladder to the quarterdeck.

Alone in the salon, Arden leaned back against the bench behind him, taking another sip of his coffee before devoting his attention to his marlinspike work. Although he still itched to go out on deck and survey their progress, he had to admit that there was something nice about narrowing his focus to such a simple, meditative task. The muffled voices of the watch team drifted down from amidships, mixed with the soothing pat of water against the hull and the sound of the wind in the rig. The ease of his task and the familiarity of the noises around him had a somnolent effect. Days upon days of lost sleep finally caught up with him, and he found his eyes sliding shut.

Though he hated the idea of kipping so close to their destination, he couldn’t deny that he needed the rest. _Just fifteen minutes_ , he promised himself, curling up with the coil of line beneath his cheek. _Fifteen minutes, and we’ll be that much closer to Anaphe_. As sleep began to pull him under, he tried to push his mind to imagine pleasant things: reaching Anaphe in time, withstanding the siege, reuniting with Val. Yet as his conscious mind relinquished hold on his thoughts they began to shift, filling with visions of fire and empty, soulless eyes.

He slept.

…

Arden started awake at the touch of a hand to his knee, sailor’s instincts telling him that he had slept for far longer than he had intended. Looking around he saw that lanterns were lit, warding against the deep blue light of oncoming dusk. He sprang to his feet, forcing Ehrin back a step.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” he demanded.

“I just did.”

“You know what I mean.”

She stepped in front of him, cutting him off before he reached the companionway. “We were making fair progress. I figured you’d need your rest, but now—”

“We’re in the harbor?”

“We just dropped anchor, yeh. But Jack—”

He pushed past her, taking the steps two at a time up to the quarterdeck. Striding to the helm to stand beside Callum, he looked out over the harbor, breath leaving his body in a rush.

Even in the dim twilight he could see smoke rising from the city, parts of the fort and the upper levels aglow with smoldering flame. High above Anaphe an unfamiliar flag was flown, a blue so deep it was nearly black, with the standard of Dramor’s ruling family below it. Arden gaped, searching the harbor for any sign of resistance or escape, but all he saw was the broken wreckage of vessels that had been dashed upon the reef to the north. A strangled noise left his throat, and he had to force himself to breathe.

“Prepare the launch,” he said, not caring whether his crew heard the manic edge to his words. “I must go ashore. I must—”

“No, lads.” Callum’s command stopped Lars and Niko in their tracks.

Arden tuned on him. “You presume to prevent me from attempting a rescue? They’ll have been taken prisoner, they’ll—”

“Lad.”

“He could be in there,” Arden said, voice breaking on the words.

“So you want to charge in with horns sounding, all red hair and Armathian cut to your tunic? You’ll not do the Regent much good by getting thrown into the cell next to him.”

“Then what,” Arden demanded, “leave him there? And my niece?” He turned back to Niko and Lars. “Set down the launch.”

“There’s nothing for it, Jack. Steward or no, I’m not letting you off this ship.”

Helpless rage tore through him at Callum’s words. An unending reel of images ran through his mind, terror seizing him as he imagined what fate may have befallen Valory and Fiona at the hands of the forces that now occupied the city. Yet for all of his fear, he knew that Callum was right: he couldn’t go near Anaphe, not with such obviously Armathian features. He had brought no aid. He was too late. There was nothing that he could do.

An incoherent cry of fury escaped his throat. He turned, slamming his fist into the mainsail peak halyard. The line barely moved, but the pain of impact and the burn of the hemp across his knuckles expelled his anger some, leaving behind a clawing desperation that sucked the breath from his lungs.

“My mind is not clear, I know that,” he said, turning away from the city to face his crew. “But if there are no ideas better than mine, I cannot leave this harbor without making an attempt to find them.”

“I’ll go.”

Arden glanced up, surprised, as Félix stepped forward.

“Like hell you will,” Niko shot back. “Don’t think for a minute we don’t—”

“Save it,” Arden interrupted. “We don’t have time to hash out your quarrel with one another for the umpteenth time. Félix, speak.”

“There are Madestan men within Anaphe’s walls. I can pass through the city unremarked,” Félix said. “I will gather the information that you cannot.”

“Where will you go? To the taverns? To the fort?” Arden asked.

“Won’t your countrymen recognize you?” Ehrin added.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. But they will not yet have received word from the tribal council.” He met Arden’s eyes. “ _I have participated in subterfuge before. I know what I’m doing_.”

“I don’t like this, Jack,” Niko grumbled.

Félix ignored him. “The city has fallen. Perhaps it would not be so if I had seen the right of things before. I will carry out your wishes.”

Arden hesitated. This was the only way he could have eyes inside the city. He knew that Félix had committed himself to fighting against Zathár, but still he worried. If the forces that occupied Anaphe came to learn that an Oceanic vessel sat within the harbor—

“I have not convinced you,” Félix surmised, interrupting his thoughts. “I do not know what else to say. I have given everything to fight with Oceana against the demon. Do you trust me, or not?”

Arden took a breath, thinking back on all that had come to pass since their encounter with the creatures. “I trust you.”

“Jack,” Niko protested.

“Listen,” he said, holding up a hand to forestall further words from his crew, “I need you to find out what happened. When was the attack? How fast did the city fall? Who defended it? Did any escape? What vessels were those?”

“They seem Oceanic in make,” Félix pointed out.

“I’m aware,” Arden replied, glancing at the wreckage, barely visible in the dying light. “I need to know if they were carrying civilians, and if any escaped when they foundered.” He turned back to Félix. “I need to know if the Regent is still within the city, and if his wife, Sybina bar Edmund, is with him. Any news of them or my nieces – Fiona, Alicia, and Alma bar Conrad – will be of the utmost importance. The same goes for the Admiral, the Captain of the City Guard, and any of their officers.”

Félix took the directions with a solemn nod. “If any have been taken prisoner—”

“Do what you can to confirm rumor, but unless you are certain of success, make no attempt at freeing them. Surprise is the only advantage we have, and if you’re caught . . .”

“Understood,” Félix nodded.

“Callum?” Arden turned to his Captain.

“Seems a more sensible plan than what you were on about before. And Félix?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Know that the trust we’ve placed in you wasn’t earned so easily.”

“Of course.” He looked back towards Arden. “I must ready myself.”

“Go,” Arden nodded. “In the meantime, let’s get the launch down.”

By the time they lowered the boat and brought it around to _Windjammer_ ’s beam, Félix had returned. He wore the simple linen coat of a Belenese sailor, the hood of which cast his features into shadow. The hilts of his sword and knives had been wrapped in cloth to hide their not-so-humble origins, marlinspike slipped between them, and Arden suspected that at least one other dagger was concealed within his boots.

“Should we send anyone with you?” Arden wondered.

Félix shook his head. “I can row myself. Company will make more complications.”

Niko made a noise low in his throat, hand closing over Félix’s forearm. “If any harm comes to _Windjammer_ out of this—”

Félix brushed his hand away, narrowing his eyes. “Do not mistake your personal dislike of me for evidence that I will turn traitor.” He stared Niko down, unflinching. “I swore my loyalty to this ship and her crew. I am not a man without honor.”

Niko turned away, grumbling, and pushed past Ehrin to make for the quarterdeck.

“All set?” Arden asked, struggling to contain his restless worry.

“If I have not returned by the second watch, it is because I have been found out,” Félix said by way of reply.

Ehrin caught his hand before he swung down into the launch. “Be careful, will you?” she implored.

He squeezed her palm between his own. “I will see you soon, _my little warrior_.” With those words he climbed over the cap rail and down to the launch. Arden waited for him to take up the oars before casting off the launch’s lines, watching in silence as Félix began the slow, laborious process of rowing into the bay.

As the launch disappeared into the darkness, Arden felt Ehrin slip her hand into his.

“I could fix us a nice, warm mug of coffee,” she offered. “I think I might even have a few pieces of that Zarándrian spice loaf left.”

“Thank you,” he said, not taking his eyes off of the city. Ehrin squeezed his knuckles.

“It’ll be alright, Jack – you’ll see.”

“I wish I shared your conviction.”

She turned, pulling him into a tight hug. “Both your niece and your man come from tough stock. Have a little faith, yeh?” She took a step back, eyeing him up. “A cup and a corner piece. Do you want them in your cabin?”

Arden shook his head. “I think I’ll wait for Félix atop the foresail gaff.”

“Okay. I’ll bring it right up, then.”

Once she disappeared below Arden made for the foresail, heart beating a furious tempo within his breast. Hoisting himself up onto the gaff from the midships housetop, he realized that his hands were trembling with nervous energy. He was keyed up as though he was in the midst of battle, yet instead of having the power to change the outcome with his cutlass or his cunning, he was trapped away from the action. Aboard _Windjammer_ he was powerless to help those he loved – powerless even to learn whether or not they were already beyond help.

Another frustrated noise escaped him. He allowed himself the indulgence of rolling up his shirtsleeves, setting eyes upon Valory’s vambraces, brandishing them before him as though they were some sort of talisman that had the power to ward against a defeat that had already come to pass. Tipping his head back, he shut his eyes and begged Illen for equanimity and calm.

It was going to be a long night.

…

Félix hitched his line to the cleat on the dock with a grateful sigh, stretching his arms above his head to battle the soreness in his shoulders. It had been many months since he had last rowed so far. Even though he had spent much time on deck during their hard sail from Zaránd, he knew that he still wasn’t as strong as he had been before his captivity.

It was an uncomfortable thought – that his body had weakened from disuse – and one that he strove not to take out and examine too often. Captivity, after all, had been no cut-and-dry affair; his time aboard _Windjammer_ had taken his strength, yes, but it was only a matter of time before working as a deckhand aboard that same vessel would help him regain it. He wondered how long it would take him to stop marveling at the circumstances through which his captors had become his allies.

Félix shook his head, climbing onto the dock and turning into the darkened street that stretched before him. He thrust a hand into his pocket, brushing his fingers against the good luck coin that always sat there. Here he was, risking life and limb to gather information for Oceana; a surreal development no matter how he considered it.

As he made his way towards the main thoroughfare of the city’s lowest level, however, he was reminded of why had had taken the steps he had – however unconventional they had been. As the street opened up into a small square – a former fish market, Félix supposed – he encountered the twisted shapes of a mass of creatures, bent low like scavengers over their quarry. He recoiled at the sight of them, doubling back in the direction from which he had come in tense silence. Upon reaching the docks he was relieved to see that he hadn’t been pursued.

Catching his breath he revised his plan of attack, scanning the docks for any alternate entry into the city proper. At the far end, near the deep harbor, he noticed a wide stone stairway leading towards the second level entry to the fort. Heart still thudding within his chest from the sight of Zathár’s beasts, he made for the steps, hustling up towards the fort to minimize the length of his stay in their territory.

Félix skirted around the edges of the fort, figuring it would be manned by Dramorian officers. He passed through a series of open-air corridors, hoping he was heading the right direction, before finally finding himself back on the main thoroughfare. He had reached the second level. In the dim twilight he looked west to see the broken city gates below him and the darkened Anaphean plain beyond.

The second level stank of death and rot, and he understood why as soon as he began to work his way up the thoroughfare past the wall of the fort. This was where Anaphe’s warriors had made their final stand; corpses littered the streets, tattered remnants of Anaphean livery adorning their remains, bodies nigh unrecognizable as human for all that the creatures had done to them. Félix had seen much bloodshed in his lifetime, yet still struggled not to be sick at the sight. His thoughts were drawn back to the Belenese fishing village _Windjammer_ had encountered weeks past. Though the bodies he passed in the street did not belong to his people, he knew that these men were brothers, fathers, sons, and subjects, and for the first time in his memory, he grieved the deaths of foreigners as deeply as he would his own people.

Pulling the collar of his shirt across his nose and mouth to ward away the stench, he turned uphill and picked his way past the devastation in the direction of the third level. The lower levels had been given to the creatures as a concession, it seemed, and Félix knew no man – Dramorian or otherwise – who would willingly consort with the things.

The incline between the second and third levels was not as steep, and as he wound his way upward through the streets he began to eye the retaining wall that rose from the back of a row of second level homes to fence in the third level’s thoroughfare. The masonry was old and pitted in places, and though Félix’s arms still ached from the long row, he placed his chances at summiting the wall greater than his chances at talking Dramorian soldiers into letting him pass.

The climb was dicey in the dark. Arms trembling with fatigue he groped about for handholds, teeth grit and breath coming out in stuttering gasps. In some places the stone crumbled beneath his fingers, mortar turning to dust as soon as weight was placed upon it. Years spent aloft in the rig of great ships worked to his advantage, however, and he made good progress up the side of the wall. Some minutes later his palm landed flat atop the third level. He pulled himself up with care, peering over the wall to examine his surroundings. He had climbed up at a bend in the thoroughfare, and though lanterns were lit along the street, there was nary a soul in sight.

Félix boosted himself over the wall, brushing dust from his clothing and stretching his arms out over his head once more. From his vantage point he could hear the noise of a gathering up and around the bend, and pulled his hood up before advancing in that direction.

He passed a Dramorian soldier in the street, and was relieved when the man exchanged no more than a simple nod with him. Blowing out a sigh, he paused outside the door of a noisy tavern to catch his breath and collect his thoughts. He’d never have voiced his concerns to Arden, but he had doubted his brother’s claims that Belenese soldiers already marched ahead at Zathár’s command; it wouldn’t be unlike Olivier to bluff for intimidation’s sake. The Dramorian soldier’s greeting, cool though it had been, was proof that he was not the lone Madestan in the city.

Félix turned into the tavern, raising a hand in casual greeting before making his way towards the bar. His eyes flicked over the men assembled around the room, seated in clusters that seemed to break down by rank and region. None of Dramor’s elite were present which was just as well: he’d have more luck getting common soldiers to talk than any of the sultan’s guard. With some satisfaction he noted that luck was with him that night; in the far corner against the wall, a complement of Belenese infantrymen occupied a table of their own.

The bar was unmanned, a stack of dirty mugs sitting beside a tapped oak cask. Félix kept his ears open for his home dialect as he poured himself a drink. Though the tavern was loud he was able to pick out a few of the Belenese speakers; their accents placed them as inland commoners, men from the mountain regions who weren’t likely to know Félix at sight.

Félix took a draught from his mug, finding the brew strange but not unpleasant, similar enough to Belenese ale to be drinkable. He dawdled at the bar, picking up on snatches of the conversation. One of his countrymen – a swarthy commoner with a large fame – was mid-complaint about Dramorian bureaucracy. Word had come from Indar that they would be stationed in Anaphe for some time. Félix grimaced in sympathy; the Madestan people were not fond of inaction.

“ _They say they’re waiting for reinforcements from Indar and Madesta before we start the next march. We’ve got the shit end of the deal, if you ask me – it could take months for them to arrive_ ,” the man was saying, evidence of several tankards slurring his words.

“ _Think the alliance went off_?” one of his comrades asked.

“ _If those piss-drinking Januzians didn’t botch the whole thing_ ,” another replied.

Félix crossed the tavern towards them, mug in hand, some semblance of a plausible story formulating in his mind as he approached. Stressing the lazy vowels of a coastal villager’s accent he said, “ _Not for lack of trying on their part, but we pulled it out in the end_.”

“ _What’s this now, a sailor_?” the burly one asked, turning to look Félix over.

“ _Came in on the evening tide, straight from Zaránd_ ,” Félix replied.

“ _And you’ve got news of the council then, have you_?” Burly continued.

“ _I know what my officers told me_ ,” he shrugged.

“ _From where does your river run, sailor_?”

“ _Pakrac, in Western Cazma._ ”

Burly nodded. “ _A fisherman, then_.”

Félix shook his head, cocking his hip to display his sword. “ _A navy man_.”

“ _Cazma is right on the Januzian border. See much action there_?”

“ _I’ve taken almost as many Januzian heads as I have maiden-heads_.”

Burly threw his head back, bellowing out a laugh. “ _A real warrior, this one_.” He gestured to an empty seat on the other side of the table. “ _Have a drink with us, man of Belen. Tell us what you know, and we’ll tell the tale of our victory_.”

Burly’s companions hastened to make room, shuffling around so Félix could get to his seat. Félix took another long sip from his mug, coaching himself on his vowels before speaking once more.

“ _Not too much to tell, since it’s all done by pen and not by sword. A lot of debate behind closed doors, my Captain says, but all for the good. The alliance was set and signed, and we were given orders to make for Anaphe_.” He lowered his voice, leaning in. “ _My Captain says that by the war’s end, we’ll have seen the last of Dramorian rule in our lands_.”

“ _I’ll drink to that_ ,” Burly said, raising his mug.

“ _Let’s have it_ ,” one of his companions agreed.

Burly grinned. “ _A toast: to a new Madesta and a free one, a long life and a merry one, a quick death and an easy one, a strong ale – and another one_.”

“ _Here, here_ ,” Félix agreed, drinking deep. “ _Now what’s your news, soldier?_ ”

“ _Vik, let’s get us another round_ ,” Burly commanded. The youngest member of the group hastened about the task of gathering their mugs. “ _So you want to hear about the siege then, do you_?”

Félix leaned forward, dropping his elbows on the table and forcing his lips into a wide smile. “ _Spare me no detail_.”

…

Ehrin was the one who lowered the ladder, and for no other reason than that, Félix bit back a request for aid. He made no complaint as he fought the powerful ache in his arms and shoulders, pulling himself up to the deck under his own power. Some of his exhaustion must have showed in his frame, for she reached out to take him by the arm, leading him to the midships housetop where he sat with a grateful sigh.

“You should have let Niko and Jonah come with you,” she admonished, brushing his sweat-soaked curls away from his forehead. Her hand was cool; he struggled against the temptation to lean into her touch.

“Félix, what news?”

He jerked away from her as Arden approached with the rest of _Windjammer_ ’s crew. The dim lantern light cast the shadows beneath the man’s eyes into sharp relief, highlighting the coiled tension in his frame.

“The city is under Dramorian rule,” Félix said, trying to organize his thoughts and deliver his news in as clear and succinct a manner as possible. “Zathár’s creatures were given the first two levels. It is the second level where the last stand was made. I saw the barricade and the bodies of the fallen.”

“Who lay among them?” Arden asked.

“It was dark, and most were disfigured. I did not see their faces.”

“You know what I ask.”

Félix’s frown deepened. It was an effort for him to continue in Oceanic, but he knew it would be unfair to deliver the news in his own tongue. “I spoke to some of my people, soldiers who fought during the siege. I walked with them through the upper levels.” He met Arden’s intent stare. “The large church on the highest level—”

“Cathedral,” Arden supplied.

“Yes, cathedral. The bodies of fallen officers are displayed on the outside.”

He watched Arden clench his hands into fists at his sides, yet when he spoke, his voice remained deceptively level. “You know what the Regent’s armor looks like. Were there any meeting his description?”

“No. There were some Armathians among them, but I was told that it is not uncommon for one of your provinces to send aid to another.”

Arden nodded. “There was a company of Armathian infantrymen in the barracks when I was there last.” He blew out a long breath, tilting his head back to look up at the sky. “They’re all dead, then.”

“The men were not certain whether some had been kept alive to placate the creatures, but the officers were all accounted for: slain after interrogation, they said.”

“And the Captain of the City Guard?” Arden asked.

“The Anaphean with the star on his collar?” At Arden’s expectant look, he shook his head. “His body was with the others. My countrymen knew him by title.”

Arden let out a shaky breath. “Malcolm bar Orin.”

“His name?”

“Yes. _Gods_ —” he broke off, looking back out towards the city.

“You knew him?” Félix asked. Arden gave a terse nod.

“He was the viceroy’s protector. My niece would not have lived to see this year if not for his bravery, and now—” Arden bowed his head, touching two fingers to his brow. “He met his end in the name of duty. He was a good man.” He paused again, and Félix got the impression that he was mustering the strength to continue with his questions. “What did you learn about the vessels in the harbor?”

“Civilians and navy. They sailed when the city fell. The men said there were two.”

“They must have attempted an evacuation. Sea creatures were sent to wreck them.”

“That is what I was told.”

“Valory would have been on one of those vessels,” Arden said, words bitten and sharp. “His men wouldn’t have permitted him to be in the city as it fell. And Fiona—” he turned back to Félix, beseeching. “Who came off of them? Were prisoners taken?”

“Only a few, off the one that foundered closest to the channel.” He looked away. “None bore high titles. All have since perished.”

“But the second ship—”

“Foundered deep. It was broken upon the reef by creatures.”

“Are you certain?”

“That is what I was told.”

“And there were no others?” Arden asked, voice growing shaky. “No longboats launched? No swimmers? No—”

Félix shook his head, swallowing hard, dreading the man’s reaction to his next words. “Arden. There were no survivors.”

A strangled noise escaped Arden’s throat, but no words came. He sunk to his knees on the deck, insensate, still and silent in his grief. Lars moved to stand beside him, laying a palm upon his shoulder, but he didn’t seem to notice that it was there.

Félix knew the look of a man whose control had been worn threadbare, but knew not what to do or say to ease his sorrow. He glanced sidelong at Ehrin but she, too, was taken with grief, brows knitted together, a palm covering her mouth. She was in no position to aid him. Félix shifted with discomfort. He knew that he had brought bad news – the death of a liege lord and friend – but hadn’t expected the tremendous depth of Arden’s grief.

He cleared his throat, grasping for words. “ _May he be taken by the river_ ,” he murmured. Arden had always seemed to liven at such phrases, understanding that Félix spoke Belenese during his greatest attempts at sincerity. Now, however, Arden showed no sign of having heard him. He remained on his knees, staring straight ahead, one fist clenched white-knuckled over the vambrace on his opposite forearm.

Callum was the first to come to, nudging Félix and nodding in the direction of the helm. “Let’s go lads,” he said, voice pitched low. “There’s naught for us here.” He paused, waiting for Arden to move, to speak, to somehow react to his command – but no words came.

“Captain?” Félix asked, hesitating at the quarterdeck steps.

“Sails up, lads,” Callum said, not unkindly. As his crew took up their places at the main and fore halyards, he spared one last look at Arden’s frozen, choked grief. “I want you on the helm, Félix; take us due north else we’ll not make it around the shoals. We should pass them in an hour’s time.”

“And after that, Captain?”

It was Arden who answered him, face blank, expression devoid of any and all emotion. “North north-east,” he rasped, “ten degrees.”

Callum nodded, swallowing hard. “As he says, lad. Set a course for Armathia.”

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry not sorry.
> 
> ...
> 
> So this is the end of the second draft of Western Wave. Editing has been . . . a process, and I'm sure I'm still not finished, since I *added* 10,000 words (which I'm pretty confident is the exact opposite of what an edit is supposed to do). I'm putting this aside for now, though, because it's time to start chucking words onto the screen for Book 3. It will take forever to write, but I SWEAR I will finish it. SWEAR.
> 
> That said: I will happily eat up any concrit with a spoon, so if anything has stuck in your craw or seemed not-right to you, by all means let me know.
> 
> .
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who has stuck with me so far! Your comments and kudos' have meant more to me than you can possibly know :) Special shout to:
> 
> typervoxilations for all of the wonderful words and encouragement (and reading material bribery); Avanie for invaluable incredible volunteer beta that has already made this story SO MUCH better than it was before; Aerun and hocus for your lovely, thoughtful comments; and Nemay, Loladai, Zello, rae534, Stiles, & ANingtoRemember for your kind words and support!
> 
> PS: Guys if you haven't seen the new map I made, you should go to 'A Flash' and check it out, because I may be more proud of it than my actual writing.


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